


An Absence of Stars

by TheKnittingJedi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a bookseller, Book Club, Book Signings, Crowley is a writer, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Human AU, I suppose this is a romcom now, LGBT+ literature, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Modern London, Queer Culture, Road Trips, Secret Identity, aggressive journalism, at least in the beginning, dramatic reveals, extraordinary amounts of alcohol, give me all your clichés and no one gets hurt, improper use of wikipedia articles, they are both idiots, thrysts in seaside hotels, time jumps, two very messed up people with their baggage trying to figure things out, warning: deadlines are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-10-05 16:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingJedi/pseuds/TheKnittingJedi
Summary: A.Z. Fell is a famous (well, in his circle) Soho bookseller whose selection of volumes is the epitome of respectable (and boring) literature. One of his favourite authors is the renowned science writer A.J. Crowley, whose books on astronomy have popularized the subject — and also sell very well.Mr Fell is overjoyed when Dr Crowley accepts his invitation to do a signing of his new book in the bookshop, but their first conversation is a disaster: for some reason, Crowley does not share Fell’s distaste for romantic literature and acts very cold when the bookseller berates the author of one of the most popular romance series of the moment, Madame Ashtoreth.Little does Fell know that his favourite writer and the one he hates with a passion are the same person…





	1. From Eden to Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> _Desiderium_ (noun, Latin): longing; regret; need. From _de + sīdus, -ĕris_, loosely translatable as “an absence of stars”.

In a bookshop in Soho, a letter sits on a desk. It’s at the exact centre, perfectly aligned with the desk’s borders.

The owner of the shop, a distinguished gentleman whose name is A.Z. Fell, is currently digging a trench in the rug in front of the desk by pacing back and forth. He’s hyping himself up for the herculean task of opening said letter.

“One way or another, the choice is made”, he tells himself, then he straightens his back. “Come on, old chap, buckle up.” He goes to the desk, picks up his paperknife — an antique piece, shaped like a sword, perfectly in style with the rest of the décor — and with a swift gesture he cuts open the envelope.

He smooths out the thrice-folded piece of paper with slightly trembling hands and takes a deep breath before he starts reading.

_ Dear Mr. Fell, _

_ I have received your proposal to host a signing of my new book in your bookshop. It is with great pleasure that I accept your offer. Please contact my assistant — their details are printed below — in order to arrange the date and time. _

_ Yours truly, _

_ Dr A.J. Crowley _

Thank goodness the bookshop is empty and no customer is there to witness a respectable, middle-aged shop owner doing a happy dance because his favourite writer agreed to do a signing event in his bookshop.

Dr Crowley’s assistant is brisk and efficient, precisely the kind of person Fell likes. They go straight to the point and tell him everything he needs to know about the event: available dates, the expected attendance, the number of copies of _ From Eden to Eternity: a History of the Night Sky _he will be sent, the kind of beverage Dr Crowley likes. “Black coffee or sparkling water. Never, ever tea”, they specify, with the solemnity of a doctor giving bad news to a patient.

Fell takes notes as if his life depends on them. “Would Friday the 24th work for you?”

“Excellent”, they reply without hesitation. “I’ll be in contact a few days before to settle the last details.”

They hang up, leaving Fell to stare at his phone. “Have a nice day”, he says out of habit before he hangs up too.

Thursday is Fell’s favourite day of the week, because it’s delivery day. The sound of brakes outside his shop always makes him stop whatever he’s doing and sprint to the door, like Pavlov’s dog at the ringing of a bell.

He does not remember that today is, in fact, a Tuesday until he runs from the backroom all the way to the front, with a smile and almost out of breath, only to see a huge box trying to open the door of the shop and failing.

On closer inspection, Fell notices two skinny, black-jean-clad legs sticking below the box and two equally slender arms holding precariously the heavy-looking package while trying to grab hold of the door’s handle. He is so puzzled that it takes a second or two for him to run to the door. “Can I help y— ”

The box wobbles forward as soon as he opens the door. As the bell chimes, he reaches forward just a moment before it and its owner could crash on the floor.

The situation is so precarious that he does not flinch when he feels fabric under his right hand and realizes that he’s grabbed a handful of the mysterious deliverer’s black shirt, instead of cardboard. “Careful! Careful! Here, to the right, on the desk. Put it down, lower, lower…”

When they finally manage to free themselves of the box, a sigh of relief comes from the other side. “Thank… someone. Sorry to barge in like this, but I was passing through and had your books with me, so I thought, why not pop in and delivery them myself. Anyway, a pleasure to meet you.”

Fell stares. He just… stares. The man, who has summarily cleaned his hands on his shirt and is now holding out one of them for him to shake, looks relaxed despite his somewhat dishevelled state. He has deep red hair tied at the back of his head, designer black glasses and a slim, wiry physique.

Most importantly, the man is Anthony J. Crowley.

“D-doctor Crowley, I wasn’t expecting…” he stutters, finally finding his voice and shaking the man’s hand gingerly, as if it was made of glass.

Crowley’s grasp is firm but gentle and, when he lets go, Fell’s hand is tingling. “Pshh, don’t mention it. And drop the ‘Doctor’ bullshit, please. Crowley is more than enough for my friends. Nice place you have here”, he adds, thrusting his hands in his pockets — the jeans are so tight that his fingers only fit halfway there — and taking in the bookshop.

It _ is _a nice place, if Fell says so himself. It has… atmosphere. It looks old, but not decadent. The windows let in the light just right, and then there’s its best feature (not counting the books, obviously): the round skylight at the centre of the room.

“It’s… surprising.”

Fell is too preoccupied to notice that Crowley is looking at him while he says that. “Yes, it’s not exactly a tourist trap, is it? I have a few regulars, though. Discerning customers, if you will.”

“I don’t visit this part of town frequently, but maybe I should have.”

The meaning behind his words is clear: he’s hardly the type to shop in places like Fell’s. He probably prefers big stores, the kind with neon lights and a cafeteria on the premises.

Fell tries not to take it personally. “I see. Well, I’m a big fan of your work. Obviously, since I’ve invited you.”

“By letter”, Crowley adds. “Handwritten.”

Fell hopes his cheeks are not too deep a shade of red. “I hope my little place will be up to the task.”

Crowley’s smile is strangely slow and vulnerable, like he had to search for a while before finding it on the bottom of a drawer full of forgotten things. “I’m sure it will be.”

Fell stares. Again. It’s impossible not to, because he has no way of knowing if the smile touches Crowley’s eyes, with those blasted glasses.

“Right. Here are the books. See you on the 24th, then.” Crowley waves and he’s out before Fell can rustle up a word of farewell.

He watches as he hops on the car he has parked on the sidewalk in front of the shop, despite it being a no-parking zone, and he speeds away.

He is too bewildered to think straight for a long time. It’s only hours later, having fixed himself a nice cuppa, that it occurs to him that perhaps it wasn’t a social visit. Maybe Crowley wanted to see his place with his own eyes, to make sure it’s not too small or too shabby. A part of him is hurt at the implication, while another understands and respects the precaution.

Anyway, if this has been a test, he has passed it with flying colours.

The sturdy oak table, covered with copies of _ From Eden to Eternity _in neat piles. A bottle of sparkling water (Fell is firmly opposed to coffee). Four rows of chairs he has hastily bought and has no idea where he will store after. The slanted rays of sunlight that enter through the skylight, bathing the round room in caramel-colored light. The shelves of antique books, so different from the mint-fresh, sharp-looking covers of Crowley’s book.

Fell takes it all in. It’s the calm before the storm.

He checks his watch. It’s five to two. Only one minute has passed since he last checked.

The door opens with a cheerful ring and a black-clad couple comes in. One of them is unmistakably Crowley, swagger, sunglasses and all, and the petite woman with short, dark hair must be…

“Hello, welcome! What a pleasure to meet you in person, Miss Zebub”, says Fell, offering his hand. “Oh, sorry, it’s Ms, isn’t it? You’ve been very clear on the phone.”

Crowley’s assistant looks at his hand with an indifference that is somehow more meaningful than open hostility, then lifts their gaze and is about to add something, but Crowley pats their back with enough energy to make them stagger.

“Beatrice, have you been harassing good Mr Fell on the phone? How many times do I have to tell you I’m the only one allowed to be mean to booksellers?” And then, _ of all things _, he winks at Fell over his sunglasses and struts towards the table. “Oh, I see you’ve already assembled the things, good job.”

Fell stays behind with Crowley’s assistant for a moment. “Is he always this cheerful?” he asks.

They make a grimace. “No, this is his ‘book presentation’ demeanour. Usually he just mopes around and complains about deadlines. Oi, Crowley”, they shout, “did you bring enough pens?”

“Is zero enough?”

Ms Zebub opens their bag and takes out a handful of black pens. “I have the most beautiful job in the world. Is everything set?”

“Ehm, yes, I figured…”

“Good.” They walked to the table with the enthusiasm of an exterminator about to take on a particularly difficult job.

In the meantime, Crowley has disappeared in the depths of the shop. Fell looks for him with apprehension, but he finds him innocently leafing through an old cosmology book.

“What a wonderful selection of antiquities you have here. How is business, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t mind. I manage well enough. You don’t open a library to get rich, after all.”

Crowley smirks. From the way he tilts his head, Fell manages to catch a brief glimpse of his eyes over the black lenses. “That’s true for writing, too.”

“Have you always wanted to be a writer?” And here he is, making small talk with Anthony J. Freaking Crowley.

The man shrugs, putting the volume back in its place. “I’ve wanted to be many things, but I’m quite happy with where I am right now.”

“I have to admit I am too. I’ve made… quite a nest, here.” Where does this instinct to talk about himself come from? He’s not usually like that. Talkative. Eager to share. “The world can be harsh, sometimes. Families too.”

But Crowley does not seem bored at all. His smirk softens. “Boy, do I know that. I wish we’d all have the possibility to carve out a safe place for ourselves. It seems you’ve managed quite well. Your bookshop is beautiful. I wonder why I’d never heard about it until you wrote to me.”

“I’ve found out that my clientele comes mostly from word of mouth, so I don’t advertise.”

“Yeah, we don’t want all those pesky, commoner customers.”

Fell cracks a thin smile. “That’s one way to put it. Let’s say the fewer people come here asking for… mainstream romance novels, the better.”

Crowley shifts his hips. “Really? How so?”

Too taken by the subject to notice the edge in his voice, Fell goes on. “It’s perhaps a bit presumptuous of me, I know, but I would like to be known for the quality of my books. It’s not that I’m opposed to best-sellers, per se. I’d sell them, if they were any good.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot above the rim of his glasses. “Out of curiosity, how many of these best-sellers have you read, recently?”

“Oh, I don’t have to read them to know they’re rubbish.”

Crowley’s lips are a thin line.

Fell still doesn’t notice. “Honestly, I’d rather close the bookshop than sell the sort of things I see around, with those ghastly covers and implausible names, like that… Oh, what’s her name? The one with that pseudonym, who’s even made the New York Times list…”

“Madame Ashtoreth?”

“That’s the one. I’m not saying anything about her character, of course, but I don’t want anything to do with her books.”

“And how do you judge _ my _books, then?”

Fell is puzzled by the sudden change of subject. “What do you mean? I love your books, of course. They are… educational, and enlightening, and your style is marvellous. What…” Suddenly, the penny drops. “Oh, my God. Have I offended you in some way? I’m so sorry, sometimes my brain and my mouth just don’t…”

There’s a little bit of ice in Crowley’s smile. “Don’t worry, the only ones you have offended are romance writers.”

Sweating under his jacket, vest and shirt, Fell manages a tremulous smile of his own. “Thank God, then, because I don’t care for them.”

“Yes, you’ve quite driven the point home. Excuse me, Mr Fell, I believe the first guests are arriving.”

Fell is relieved when Crowley sits behind the table, waiting for the presentation to start. He believes in what he said, and he’s actually glad he’s been able to express his opinions to a writer he respects. He’s sure that an established science writer such as Dr Anthony Crowley shares his contempt for shallow literature.

Something does not sit right, though. But he can’t for the life of him put his finger on what.

The audience is not technically a crowd, but there’s only a handful of empty chairs as Crowley begins his speech. Fell waits until everyone is seated and then occupies a chair in the back row. He’s fidgety for the entirety of Crowley’s talk, while the rest of the audience is captive and laughs at all the right moments.

He is almost as good a speaker as he is a writer, Fell has to give him this. When the time comes for questions, he thinks carefully before answering and is thorough and witty in his replies.

He doesn’t look in Fell’s direction a single time.

Fell’s almost shaking as he approaches Crowley, who’s now signing copies. He leans over. “Is everything all right?”

Crowley doesn’t lift his head from the page he’s scribbling on.

Fell has to deflect a cross look from the girl whose copy Crowley is signing. “I’m the owner, my dear, it’s all right.” He tries again. “Can I offer you something? A… coffee, perhaps?”

Crowley finishes his dedication and looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Do you have a coffee machine in the backroom?”

“Ehm… no, but I can go to a… place around the corner.” It would be the first time he steps into it, but he will, if it will smooth things out between him and the inexplicably cross writer currently burning a hole through him through his sunglasses.

“I’m sorry, I only drink a particular java blend, and only french-pressed.” The line flows and he takes another book to sign, not before adding under his breath: “Wouldn’t want to be too commonplace”.

Fell straightens his back and goes away without a word, thinking he must have misheard that and knowing he has not.

That night, as he’s lying in bed with no hopes of sleeping, he can’t help but replay in his mind the way Crowley kept giving him the cold shoulder even after all the people had left.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Fell”, Crowley lied smoothly, heading for the door.

“I look forward to seeing you again”, Fell said, desperately.

The only answer to that was a blank look from Crowley’s assistant, who added: “I’ll be in contact to tie all the financial loose ends before the end of the week”.

Fell was honest when he told Crowley that the bookshop was his safe place, but, right then and there, he’d never felt more alone in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all very silly, but the idea planted itself in my brain and wouldn't leave me alone until I sat down and wrote it.  
I know Beelzebub as Crowley's assistant makes no sense whatsoever, but it was another idea that refused to leave, and I enjoyed the dynamic too much to kick them out of the fic. Also, they scare me.  
I also know AUs aren't everyone's cup of tea, but I'm planning to write more canon-related stuff when this is over!
> 
> As always, many, many thanks to [TheGan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGan/pseuds/TheGan) for being my first, enthusiastic reader <3  
Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com)!


	2. She's Her Own Invention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from _Crush With Eyeliner_ by R.E.M., because we all deserve some nihilistic glam rock from time to time.
> 
> There are a few original characters in this one, please be gentle with them.

Fell spends the next few days ruminating on what happened. He clears the chairs from the shop, leaving them in a haphazard pile in the basement, and puts the few unsold copies of _ From Eden to Eternity _ in the window.

His own copy sits on his desk and looks a little worn-out already, like a well-loved book, which in fact it is. Fell has already read it from cover to cover twice, and now is spending an amount of time he doesn’t want to think about just staring at it. The book is magnificent, of course: it’s a reconstruction of the way the night sky has changed through the ages, starting from the dawn of civilization, and a forecast of what future generations will see when they’ll look up.

Pretending he hasn’t done it a dozen times before, Fell turns the book over and looks at the author’s photo on the back. A professionally shot Crowley looks back at him, unfazed, dressed in black — Fell knows it’s not a coincidence, now —, with his shoulder-length hair neatly tied at the back of his head.

He can’t help but compare this professorial, serious individual with the energetic, brilliant man he somehow managed to alienate with just a few words.

The decision is made before he even realises. He has to fix it.

And he needs help.

“You are such an _ idiot _.”

Putting his teacup on its saucer with the utmost calm, Fell knits his eyebrows together. “I will not apologise for speaking my mind.”

Anathema has her hands physically in her hair. “Wh— How can you work in a shop and not have an ounce, a single ounce of social grace? How could you _ think _that telling him those things was a good idea?”

His cheeks are now burning and he is not happy about it. “I thought he would agree with me”, he admits.

Anathema puts her hands on the table, almost reaching out for him but not quite. She knows how he feels about physical contact and respects that (it’s one of the reasons they’re friends). “And you were wrong. You should apologise. As soon as possible.”

He doesn't like the direction this conversation is taking, so he desperately grasps for a change of subject, something pertinent but that wouldn't necessarily lead to him admitting he's wrong. “Why do you think he reacted that way?”

“The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Well, three. The first is that your man is a big time fan of romance novels.” Anathema ignores Fell’s outrage at her phrasing. “The second is that he's not an asshole and doesn't like when someone disparages other writers.”

“And the third?”

“The third is that he’s secretly Madame Ashtoreth, but that’s a bit far-fetched even for me.”

Fell huffs. “I should think so.”

Instead of yelling at him some more, which is clearly not working, Anathema pinches the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed, looking like she’s summoning the last shreds of her patience. “Do you trust my professional judgement?”

“Oh, darling, of course I do.” 

He’s not lying. Their friendship is odd by many standards, but it’s built on solid foundations of affection and respect. They met each other through her grandmother, Agnes, whose collection of books of prophecies was sponsored by Fell’s bookshop since time immemorial. The first time they met, some fifteen years ago, Anathema was a girl of six or seven, with eyes as big and round as saucers as she took in the library, holding onto her grandmother’s hand like it was a lifeline.

When Agnes died, a few years ago, Anathema asked for Fell’s help in organizing her collection of antique books, and he was happy to help. She works as a librarian, it turned out, and they bonded over a shared love of books, although their tastes couldn’t have been different. Their personalities too.

As soon as he answers her question, Anathema gets up and out of the kitchen, disappearing in the corridor. Her apartment is so small that Fell can hear her in the next room, rummaging through something… books, from the sound of it.

When she returns, she slams three or four volumes on the table with enough energy to make the flimsy piece of furniture wobble. “Read them. Please. For me. Or just… thumb through them, read the summary, the dedication, the index page, sniff them. Give it a try, please.”

Fell is moderately worried by the strength of her reaction, but knows better than to tell her. He takes the books and skims the titles, a little unnerved by the fact that Anathema is looking at him like he’s a rat in a labyrinth.

They are not recent, that much is clear by glancing at the cover design alone. The figures are depicted in hypersaturated tones that emphasize their dramatic expressions as they hold onto each other for dear life, while lightning strikes in the background. 

He doesn’t bother reading the titles, although he can’t help but notice that all of them are authored by the notorious Madame Ashtoreth.

“How long has this woman been around?” he mutters to himself.

Anathema answers all the same. “Enough to make an impression. Do you really not know anything about her? She’s really good. And, I mean, she’s earned all the credit she has. There’s a whole branch of modern literature that wouldn’t exist without her. Nobody knows where she comes from or her real name, and she always appears in public with dark glasses and a hat, but her books are _ so good _. They are so popular that there’s a months-long waiting list at the library even for the older ones, when she was still developing her style and themes.” She stops when she realises she’s about to hold a conference in her kitchen. “Anyway, you should give them a try.”

Fell cannot find it in him to break her heart. “Fine, I will bring them home and I will try to read one. I’m not promising anything.”

With a discreet smile of triumph, Anathema picks one book from the pile and puts it on the top. “Start with this one.”

That night, Fell looks at the twin piles of books on his nightstand, the ones of his choice and the pile of shame. He picks up Anathema’s novel and looks dubiously at the cover for quite some time.

Then he puts it down and restarts _ From Eden to Eternity _from the beginning.

The thought won’t leave him alone, though. Or maybe it’s a conspiracy, because he’s ambushed by an advert while he’s reading the paper, the next day.

It’s not a box, not even a one-page advertisement: Madame Ashtoreth’s press agent has deemed it necessary to buy _ two _ pages to inform the nation that the woman will be speaking publicly and signing books at the Barbican, two evenings from now. Apparently her new book is coming out soon and no bookshop was deemed spacious enough to contain the horde of her fans.

He doesn’t decide to go. He doesn’t decide _ not _ to go, either. Two days pass by and, as he’s closing the shop for the evening, instead of having a lonely dinner and reading until bedtime, he changes his bowtie for a slightly fancier one, combs his hair and goes out.

He reaches the bus stop, but it’s such a lovely evening that he decides to go on foot. It’s not impossibly far and there’s plenty of time. He had forgotten how gorgeous the city could be on an autumn sunset, when the orange light softly kisses the buildings and the air is crisp with the promise of a chilly night. It’s on evenings like these that he thinks he should get out more, although he always changes his mind upon returning to the safe haven of the bookshop.

The streets are only moderately crowded. It may as well be because half of London is waiting in line outside the Barbican, apparently.

Fell is speechless: from the look of it, all these people have been queuing for _ hours _already, and the event doesn’t start in another two.

Everything in him is telling him to go away. He doesn’t like crowds, he’s not particularly fond of being outside, for that matter, and he is wary of things that appeal to a broad audience. On the other hand, he respects Anathema’s judgement and he doesn’t have to dig deep in his mind to recall the memory of Dr Crowley’s reaction to his perhaps too precipitous words.

“What am I doing”, he says to himself as he goes to stand at the end of the queue.

His decision to come here was so sudden that he didn’t even bring a book to read while waiting, so he’s forced to look at the people queuing with him (a few minutes and there are already a couple dozens of them behind him). He is bemused by the variety of humanity this woman attracts: there is a surprisingly small number of housewife-looking women, a few of them with their partners; there are some unaccompanied men, like him; there’s a lot of young people, some of them dressed in weird clothes and garish colour combinations, others more ordinary, and a few that sport vintage dresses, coiffes, bags and hats, all of them black. Unlike him, everyone he can see carries at least a book, some new and pristine, others almost in tatters and kept together with duct tape and love.

“I swear to God, Alex”, a girl in front of him is saying, “if you’ve made us arrive too late to have the book signed, I’m killing you and Lori both.” She appears to be in her early twenties, with fairly anonymous clothes offset by her bright blue hair.

“Hey, it’s not my fault! Alex needed my help with his hair.” The other girl — Lori? — has brown hair and an utterly unremarkable appearance, but has a sort of electricity about her.

“And you did a wonderful job.” The boy, Alex, is one of those people in a black dress, and his blonde hair is long enough to be curled and pinned under a very stylish hat. “I’m offering to take on dishwashing duties for the rest of the week if it comes to that. Deal?”

“We barely wash the dishes once a week.” The first girl rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Ugh, fine. At the very least we should be able to find a place to sit. My knees get all funny if I stand up for too long.”

Fell can’t help but watch as Lori wiggles for the excitement. It’s frankly adorable. “I can't believe we’re about to see her! And to hear her speak!”

“In two hours. Behave.”

“And look at all the people here!” Lori cranes her neck to look at the ever-growing line.

Blue Hair frowns. “I’m looking.”

“Good evening! Is this your first time, sir?”

It takes a moment for Fell to realise that Lori is talking to him. His heart immediately skips a beat and a fiery hotness reddens his cheeks. Has he been caught staring? But the girl’s expression is so gentle and enthusiastic that he can’t help but answer: “It actually is, yes”.

“It’s ours, too, but we’re long-time fans. I was the one who introduced these two to the books during our first year of uni.”

“And look at us now”, interjects Alex, with a flourish.

“We all love them, even Tara. What’s your favourite?”

Fell wasn’t ready to talk to people tonight, but Lori is so friendly and nice that he is far less stressed than normal. He is going to lie to her with a straight face, though. He will never admit that he’s probably here because a part of him he won't acknowledge holds the flimsy hope to bump into someone. Probably. (Definitely.) After racking his brain a bit, he manages to remember a title from Anathema’s selection. “Probably _ Bad Angels _?”

“Ooh, a classic.”

“I’m not a fan of her earlier production”, says Tara, the blue-haired grumpy girl. “Too much repression, for my tastes.”

“Oh, but the _ pining _ , the _ longing _…”

Tara rolls her eyes. “The internalized homophobia, the censorship, the bad endings…”

“They were written in the ’90s. It got better.”

“You can say that”, says Alex, the boy in the dress. “I wish she wasn’t so private, though. We know she’s queer, obviously, but I’d give my right arm to know how much of her real life is in the books.”

Tara shakes her head. “That’s morbid. Besides, that’s the point. She doesn’t want the reader to project her personal stuff onto the novels, she wants them to speak for themselves.”

As they keep arguing, Lori smiles at Fell. “I’m so glad I forced them to read the books. I could listen to them discussing all day long.”

Fell finds himself smiling back. “I understand. I enjoy it too, when people are passionate about books.” He is a little surprised to hear himself say that about _ romance novels _, and even more to realise it is true, even in this context.

Three quarters of an hour before the beginning is scheduled, the doors open. The event is free, so it’s only a matter of ensuring the safety of the attendees as they enter the foyer and choose their seating.

Once inside, Fell is unreasonably pleased when Lori turns around and asks him: “Mr Fell, are you going to sit with us?”

Maybe it is just politeness on her part, or maybe she feels pity because he’s alone. He tries not to get caught in his own mind as he nods and follows the kids into the auditorium, where security is slowly letting people in.

Tara, who’s leading the expedition, manages to secure four seats almost at the exact centre of the room, near the corridor. As he takes his seat, Fell keeps looking around, without admitting to himself in so many words that what he’s not just idly skimming the crowd. So what if his eyes linger on men with dark shirts, or his heart beats a little faster every time someone with red hair passes by?

But all he sees are people who chat with their friends, look at their books or their phones and do the things people generally do to kill time in a theatre. Two rows from him, a young man in a suit is knitting a sweater.

“I’ll be right back”, he says, getting up.

“Hurry up, it’s starting in ten minutes”, says Lori, urgently.

“Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Fell excuses himself and looks for the gentlemen’s room.

He just needs to splash some water on his face and give himself a stern look in the mirror. This is fine. It’ll be fine.

There’s a small line and, when he comes out again, the lights in the auditorium have dimmed, with the exception of a row of spotlights on the stage. The timing is such that he finds himself right beside a flight of stairs that lead backstage, almost elbow to elbow with a figure in a black dress that’s going up those stairs. They turn at the same time, and Fell is not ready to see what he sees.

A moment passes. Fell is not sure if there’s recognition in the woman’s eyes, because they’re conspicuously hidden behind dark glasses, but there’s certainly _ something _in the way she falters on the steps, hesitates for the tiniest moment and then suddenly tears her gaze away, climbing the remaining steps and entering the halo of the spotlights.

When the crowd sees the figure onstage, thunderous applause explodes and Fell manages to divert his eyes and go back to his seat.

He could easily lie to himself. He has a lot of practice in that department. He could easily have missed the resemblance of the woman on stage with the man he’s been hoping to meet all night, if he hadn’t spent the last few days staring at his photo on the back of his book.

With a grace that belies a spine of steel, the woman sits down on one of the empty chairs onstage and leans into the microphone put there for her. “Hello, my dears”, she says with a soft Scottish accent.

Fell’s realisation drowns in the ovation rising from the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me stuff on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com)!


	3. It's A Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the Men at Work song I was listening on repeat while I was writing. Yes, I have the musical taste of a middle-aged dad, no, I don’t have a problem with it.  
I’ve also done some more planning and outlining and, as a result, the chapter count has gone up. Apparently they have a lot of feelings.  
And, as always, heartfelt thanks to [TheGan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGan/pseuds/TheGan) for giving me the bestest comments.

_ A few weeks later _

If a month ago someone had told him he would keep the bookshop open after hours to host a book club for a crowd of people, he would have laughed. Well, he amends, a dozen people is hardly a crowd, and he knows most of them. There are Lori and Tara (Alex couldn’t make it, but he’ll come by tomorrow after class), a few of their friends who have already been introduced to him, and of course Anathema. The new faces have all the auras of bookish, shy, not-at-all-menacing people.

Still, it is very unusual for him to be happy about _having people_ _over _— something he manages to avoid as much as any business owner can.

At least it's a way to recycle some of those chairs he bought. 

Also, the preparations offered him something to focus on that isn’t the catastrophe of two weeks ago.

As he looks at the faces in the room, some of which are known and comforting, Lori catches his eyes and gives him the thumbs up and a smile. Then she checks her watch, steps up and faces her audience. “Hello and welcome to the first meeting of the Afterhour Book Club! First of all, let us all thank the man who made this possible, giving us all a place to meet, as well as a sympathetic ear and a safe space to many of us.”

“And lots of tea”, yells Anathema, who winks at him from one end of the semicircle of chairs.

“Also the tea. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts, Mr Fell.”

As they cheer and applaud, he’s sure he has never hoped more fervently than the ground would open and swallow him.

At the same time, a part of him is pleased and warm. It’s a part that has been broken for such a long time he doesn’t even notice the pain anymore. Or he wouldn’t, if it hadn’t been stepped on again recently. It’s dangerously close to his heart, a place where he keeps only books, tea, fancy restaurants and a single friend. It’s not a place he welcomes people in. It’s not a public space.

Except tonight the door cracks open just a little bit, and it’s a little overwhelming, yes, but not intolerable.

Lori goes on. “Tonight, as you should know, we are discussing E.M. Forster’s _ Maurice _. Before that, though, let’s all introduce ourselves, but let’s make it real quick, so we can jump to the interesting bits.”

Open doors or not, Fell has given Lori only one rule. Okay, fair, he has actually given her a whole set of them, like no drinks or food in the shop except tea, and the door will close at precisely 11 pm. But there are rules, and then there’s the Rule: no novels by Madame Ashtoreth will be discussed.

As the first meeting of the book club begins, Fell can’t help but let his mind wander and pick at the scab of his fresh wound, whose sting has only begun to fade. 

It doesn’t make sense, really, how hurt he is that Crowley will never speak to him again, not after everything went wrong.

_ A few weeks earlier _

“Please, tell me I’m wrong.”

Instead of doing so, Anathema stares at him.

Either she can’t believe the words that just came out of her friend’s mouth, or she’s still absorbing all the information that Fell has tried to relate, in the most matter-of-fact of ways, about yesterday night.

Or maybe she thinks he’s crazy, plain and simple. He doesn’t blame her.

They are meeting in their usual tearoom, at their usual table by the window, for Saturday morning breakfast. The clink of pottery and the low hum of voices are familiar and soothing, but Fell still feels upset.

Anathema’s long silence is starting to worry him, so he takes a sip of tea — not his usual Oolong, but a strong black blend — to calm his nerves. “It simply can't be, you see.”

“It would explain a lot”, says Anathema, shrugging off the surprised look he gives her. “I'm just saying.”

“I have to make sure this is not real, because, if it is… I have an apology to make.”

Anathema's eyes go big. “I never thought I’d live to see the day. What made you change your mind?”

He puts a pastry in his mouth and chews slowly. (It's delicious, but he barely registers it.)

“I stayed at the Barbican until the very end. There were so many people, some of them standing because there weren’t enough seats. And each of them was there because that woman changed their lives in some way. I listened, I even talked to some of them. I could never have imagined.”

Anathema waits patiently as he takes another meditative sip of tea.

He lowers his voice. “There was this boy whose parents kicked him in the streets simply because he didn’t conform to their idea of what boys should be, of how they should behave. He’s found another home and another family, but for a time he slept on a park bench. He was seventeen, Anathema. Nobody was taking care of him, it was just him and this book he found on the bench one day, which gave him hope that somewhere, some day he would be accepted. Yesterday he stood up and thanked her for his life. There were some ladies who run a women shelter, who had the idea after meeting at a book club where they read the novels. There was a girl I talked to who is writing her master’s thesis on Madame Ashtoreth’s books. Her novels are the subject of a master’s thesis! The girl said that for a long time, queer people in literature were the butt of a joke, or an afterthought, or the victims, and that those books helped her realise that it shouldn’t be the norm, that it shouldn’t be okay. And it should not. I never thought… I thought they were just dirty stories, or worse, trivial ones. I was horribly wrong.”

Anathema’s cup clinks when she puts it on its saucer. She tries to catch Fell’s eyes, but he looks down, scared of the way they are stinging.

“I’m sorry”, he says then, rubbing at them. “I didn’t sleep very much tonight. Or, at all.”

“Were you upset that much? You should have called me.”

“No, no, it’s not what you think. As soon as I came home I started _ Bad Angels _, even if it was already late. I just… couldn’t put it down.”

A soft gasp makes him finally look Anathema in the eye. 

She is _ delighted _.

He sighs. “You can say it, if you want.”

Her face is lit by a huge grin. She takes a deep breath, savouring the moment. “My dearest friend, _ I told you so. _” She laughs at his expression and then adds, more seriously: “I think you owe an apology to Dr Crowley regardless of his possible secret identity, don't you?”

“Yes”, he agrees, very slowly and deliberately.

“We need to get to the bottom of this, though. It'll be like doing detective work! What do you want me to do? I could look on the Internet, verify if they are both in the same area at the same time, like that time they tried to find out if Banksy was that guy from Massive Attack…” 

He reaches out and touches her hand, lightly. It’s so out of character that it’s enough to stop her torrent of words. “If you feel like it, I would like you to teach me.”

Fell isn’t many things, and he’s aware of it. He’s not social, or very much fun at parties, if you’re not interested in an impromptu lecture on dead languages, bookbinding or the history of crossword puzzles. He is not a dancer, although he did learn the gavotte in high school as a part of a historical re-enactment (he enjoyed it very much and hopes against hope that it will someday trend again).

He is not used to being wrong. But he is a fast learner.

He doesn’t have to buy a computer, as Anathema half-jokingly asks him. He needs one to do his tax records and to order rare books online, but he uses it for these two purposes only and his mastery of the spreadsheets and one specific search engine is thorough but exclusive.

A few days after, they are sitting in the back room during Anathema's lunch break, he on his chair and she on the desk, with her legs crossed under her long skirt. She tries to hide her surprise in him being such a fast learner, and Fell can’t help but be smug about it. For once he is more than happy to let customers browse in peace while he works on his technological education.

Fell’s clientele has always been on the older side of the age spectrum, but one of today’s customers significantly lowers the average. He exchanges a surprised glance with Anathema when a cheery, distinctively young voice follows the chime of the bell, saying: “Hello! Mr Fell?”

After a moment, he gathers his wits and goes in the front, followed by his friend.

“Hi! Hello to you too, Miss Device”, chirps Lori, when she sees them.

“Hi, Lori! Fancy meeting you here”, says Anathema, and hugs the girl.

The cognitive dissonance leaves Fell speechless for a second. “You know each other?”

“Yes, I basically live in Miss Device’s section of the library”, Lori explains, disentangling herself. “For my thesis, you see.”

Anathema smiles. “She’s a good little researcher.”

“Only thanks to you.”

“I’m very glad to see you”, says Fell, finally remembering himself. “But you could have just called if you needed a book, instead of coming all the way.”

Lori laughs. “Called what, the landline? I would have sent you an email, but you don’t even have a website. And I’m not here for a book. Okay, _ technically _ I am. Both. I wanted to say hello _ and _ to ask if I could snatch a copy of Ovid's _ Heroides _from you, if you have it, for my Latin Lit course.”

“I need to go anyway, my lunch break was over ten minutes ago”, says Anathema, checking her watch and grabbing her enormous messenger bag. “I’ll be in touch later. Do your homework, both of you!”

So it happens that, as they look for the Ovid edition her professor requires, Lori asks what Anathema meant by _ homework _ and, Bob’s your uncle, she learns that Fell hadn’t actually read any of Madame Ashtoreth’s books when they met.

“No offence, Mr Fell, but I already knew. _ Bad Angel _’s nobody’s favourite. But it’s nice of you to want to catch up. And it’s very sweet you came to the talk hoping to meet your sweetheart.”

A book falls from his hands and lands with a thud on the floor. “How on Earth did you assume that from what I’ve told you?”

Lori just grins. “But you didn’t deny it. Honesty is a good thing, Mr Fell, but you really should give that man an apology.”

He sighs as he picks up the book. “Great, now there’s two of you.”

After having promised she’ll pass by if she has trouble with the Latin, Lori goes away with her book (“Be sure to say hello to Alex and Tara, my dear”) and Fell starts to write a letter by hand.

It’s a bright December morning, the second time Crowley almost gives him a heart attack by appearing unexpectedly in his shop. 

Fell has just wrapped up a bit of accounting and is about to schedule his annual inventory week, during which he will keep the shop closed and enjoy a few days of reorganising and noting things down.

He is in a good mood, all things considered, at least until the door is opened with so much energy that the bell doesn’t ring as much as scream in outrage.

“What is _ this _?” erupts Crowley, storming into the bookshop like an avenging angel. “What do you think you’re doing?” He slams a piece of paper on Fell’s desk, the one where he keeps the registry, the stacks of preordered books, various random stuff and just everything he needs to get off his hands to do something else. 

The table trembles, but it’s sturdy enough to withstand the fury of a red-headed writer whose eyes are presumably burning a hole into Fell, behind dark glasses. A few notes scatter on the floor, though, and for a moment it seems that the porcelain figurine of a chariot is about to follow them.

Surprise, dread and alarm follow each other in Fell, who is not used to feeling so many emotions in so little time. But the threat of the impending destruction of his shop makes him settle on a feeling in particular, one that mirrors Crowley’s. “What do _ you _ think _ you _’re doing?” he replies, raising his voice.

Crowley extends his arms. “I asked first, but, if you must know, I’m here because I had to tell you face to face: what the fuck?”

Fell gasps, speechless.

“Your letter”, Crowley specifies, and, when it’s clear that Fell doesn’t understand yet, he adds: “I can read between the lines”.

The absurdity of the situation is beginning to grate on Fell’s nerves, now that the surprise has gone and he has regained a bit of composure. How is he supposed to answer Crowley if he isn’t making any sense? “Please, explain to me what I did wrong.” _ Again _, adds his brain, unhelpfully.

“Listen, I know you know. I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but if you don’t stop on your own, I’ve got a lawyer and a very angry personal assistant to fix these kind of things for me.”

“I don’t… Wait, you can’t possibly be thinking I’m trying to blackmail you?”

Crowley sticks his arms out again. “What else am I supposed to think?”

Fell’s head spins as though he just stepped down from one of those rollercoasters he’d never ever ride. It’s too much to make sense of, so he starts from the beginning and speaks very slowly, feeling his way in the dark, afraid that if he puts a foot wrong he’ll lose what little hope he has to mend this thing, whatever it is. “My letter was an apology. I didn’t know what I was talking about, the day we met. I offended you without knowing why, and when I understood what I did it was too late. But I wrote all of this down, didn’t I?”

“A version of it, sure”, Crowley says, not giving in an inch. “You also say, at the very end, ‘My respect for you remains unchanged’.”

“I’m… sure I wrote something to that effect”, Fell says, as if he hasn’t memorized the letter after having agonized over it for so long.

“It’s what you didn’t write. I’ve heard it so many times that I know you were thinking it, even if you didn’t write it down in so many words. ‘My respect for you remains unchanged _ despite _ .’ ‘ _ Even if _.’”

_ Oh, God. _ “That wasn’t in the slightest…”

“Only because you didn’t write it, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t what you were thinking.” And then Crowley does the unexpected: he takes off his glasses. “I came here in person to tell you this so you know I’m serious: don’t contact me again.”

And, with that, he goes out, leaving the letter on the desk.

Anathema comes by that evening and doesn’t waste time with any greeting, as usual. “So, I’ve done a bit of research on my own and the good news is that I could not find any proof of your whack theory. The bad news…” 

Then she turns around and sees him on his chair in front of the desk, staring at nothing.

Her face falls. “What happened?”

He lifts his eyes, and a part of him is glad to see a friendly face. “I’m afraid I’ve made a mess of things.” He gives her the letter and watches as she skims it, realises what it is and then reads it more carefully.

When she reaches the end, she looks at him. “Did you send him this?”

Fell nods.

“How did it make it back?”

He tells her.

“Oh.” Anathema crouches beside him so that they’re almost at eye level. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

“What did I do wrong, this time?” His voice is mostly steady. Good. “I don’t understand.”

Anathema is too slow to hide her grimace.

“Tell me”, he says, in a tone that won’t allow objections.

“Well… you kind of pulled a Darcy on him.”

“I did wh— Oh. I see.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, modern romantic literature is rubbish, but Jane Austen is fine. Whatever. Listen, you can still fix it. What if you went…”

“He said never to contact him again. I can do one thing right, and it’s respecting his wish.” He takes a deep breath and tries to smile. He mostly succeeds, he thinks.

There’s nothing Anathema can say to make him change his mind, and she knows it. “Why don’t we go out, tonight? How about some crepes? My treat, this time.”

Has it always been this difficult to keep it together? Fell feels exhausted. “Thank you, my dear, but I think it’ll go to bed.”

“But it’s only half-past seven…”

“Maybe I’ll read a bit. Don’t worry about me, dear. I’ve been through worse. I just need a moment to myself.”

They both get up and Anathema lets herself be guided outside. Lucky for her, Fell is too occupied to notice the gleam of determination in her eyes as she looks at his slumped shoulders and bowed head, then turns around and walks purposefully, pulling out her phone to find an address or perhaps a telephone number.

_ A few weeks later, after the book club _

The sound of the bell as the door closes behind the last person to leave the bookshop is met with a surge of relief so great that Fell has to sit down on the nearest chair and savour it.

The silence is broken only by little, familiar noises: the hum of the heating system, the occasional clunk in the plumbing, the distant sounds of people where Fell generally prefers them, that is, outside his door.

A moment later, the landline rings.

Fell looks at the clock, which confirms that it’s preposterously late, and at the phone, reproachfully. “Really”, he says, as he nonetheless reaches out and picks up. “We are quite definitely closed.”

“You’re there, brilliant! So, right, I know I shouldn't probably be calling you at this time, especially after all I said. Bit hypocritical of me. And maybe inappropriate, but when has it ever stopped me?”

Fell blinks. He has only caught one word in five and the man on the phone sounds a bit off, although he can’t tell if he’s drunk or just upset. “Excuse me, I think you got the wrong number.”

The man at the other end of the line sighs. “Unfortunately not. It's Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spend a lot of time on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com), or so they say.


	4. Rotten Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while! Both I and my beta have been swamped with work lately, and I also encountered some difficulties while writing a few scenes. To thank you for your patience, have a longer chapter!  
I have an announcement to make, too: as you may have noticed, the rating has gone up to Explicit. I’m deeply sorry if this is an inconvenience to any of you (though glad if it isn't, of course). When I started writing this fic, I still didn’t know if I had it in me to write smut, or if things would go in that direction at all. Turns out I have, and they will!  
Thanks to everyone who read and commented for giving me the boost of confidence I needed. This shit is like heroin, man.  
Finally, this chapter's title comes from that quote from Ann Carson's translation of the _Orestes_ that every user on Tumblr has reblogged at least once, myself included.  
(Thanks, now and ever, to [TheGan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGan/pseuds/TheGan) for being an awesome first reader, cheering me on and having the patience of a saint.)

From Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia

**Anthony J. Crowley**

_ "aj crowley" redirects here. For the surname, see _ _ Crowley (surname)__. _

Anthony J. Crowley is a writer, scientist and former Astronomy professor at Imperial College London. He is the youngest professor to ever have obtained the chair, at 26, and also the one who kept it for the shortest time, as he was expelled one year later, in 2000, after an alleged nervous breakdown _ [citation needed] _.

He is a popular science writer, beloved by fans for his approachability and his engaging writing style, but somewhat of a controversial figure in academia.[1]

**Bibliography**

_ The Stars Look Very Different Today: Pop Music and the Cosmos _(2003)

_ Reaching for the Stars _ (2007)

_ Hunting for Knowledge _ (2014)

_ From Eden to Eternity: a History of the Night Sky _(2019)

**Personal life**

After the alleged 2000 breakdown, he lived in near seclusion for the next two years at a friend's house in Los Angeles.[2] He came back to England when his first book was published and he is currently based in London.

His reputation as a “hip” writer was solidified by his numerous flings with celebrities, actors, singers and musicians.[3][4][5]

**Notes**

  1. ^ “_Why Oxbridge Hates Pop Science”_, _The Verge_, 21 February 2013. Retrieved 8 March 2017.
  2. ^ “_Brits in LA”__, The Daily Telegraph_, 9 October 2000. Retrieved 18 September 2017.
  3. ^ “_Who's who's mystery date”_, _The Sun_, 7 August 2010. Retrieved 3 January 2018.
  4. ^ “_The most sensational news of the week”_,_ Daily Mirror_, 28 April 2015. Retrieved 5 January 2018.
  5. ^ “_A Comprehensive Roundup of Who is Dating Who”__, Entertainment Weekly_, 2 December 2017. Retrieved 4 January 2018.

From Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia

**Madame Ashtoreth**

Madame Ashtoreth is a prolific romance writer, known for the focus on queer relationships and for the unusual mix of historical fiction, symbolism and magical realism. Nothing is known of her real identity, not even by her publisher.[1]

Although she wrote her first novels in the early '00 and quickly became a household name in the queer community, her popularity soared in 2010, when she published the best-seller _ Falling Upwards_, acclaimed by both the public and the critics. The novel entered the New York Times List and won the RITA Award the following year.[2][3]

While her earlier work follows broadly the tenets of traditional historical romance in both style and plot devices, since 2012 her signature style is a mixture of dryness and irony, and her characters are known for their quick wit and sharp tongue. With her latest foray into New Adult, she’s also been acclaimed as “the most interesting new voice in the genre”.[4]

**Bibliography**

_ Bad Angels _ (2002)

_ Friends in Unexpected Places _ (2003)

_ The Temptation _ (2005)

_ A Miracle of Our Own _ (2007)

_ On Sacred Ground _ (2008)

_ Falling Upwards _(2010)

_ The Golgotha Club _(2012)

_ Rotten Work _(2014)

_ Occult Creatures _ (2016)

_ Ethereal Creatures _ (2017)

**Popularity and adaptations**

_ List of works based on Madame Ashtoreth’s novels and novellas. _

The rights to _ Falling Upwards _have been optioned in 2018 for a TV show, which is currently in the early stages of production.[5]

[...]

  1. ^ Carmine Zingiber, “_Before Elena Ferrante: who is Madame Ashtoreth?” _ , _ The Atlantic _, 3 November 2016. Retrieved 4 January 2017.
  2. ^ _ New York Times Bestseller List_. Retrieved 4 September 2010.
  3. ^ _ List of RITA Award winners_.
  4. ^ “_Putting the New in New Adult: the Latest and Hottest Voices in the Genre” _ , _ Buzzfeed Books _, 8 July 2016. Retrieved 7 September 2017.
  5. ^ “_Falling Upwards won’t be the new Game of Thrones. Here’s why it’s a good thing _”, _Entertainment Weekly_, 2018. Retrieved 9 January 2019.

[...]

* * *

“It's Crowley.”

_ Oh. _ The receiver slips from Fell's hand and hits the desk. For a moment he believes it complained loudly, but that was probably just Crowley on the other end of the line. “I'm so sorry”, he says, picking up the receiver again. “Are you still there?”

“For the most part, yes. Anyway, um… Are you…”

Fell waits patiently. Also, his heart is in the process of making its way to his mouth and talking isn't really an option. 

“I mean, are you still mad at me for our last conversation?”

The absurdity of the question shakes Fell from his temporary aphasia. “If I recall correctly, _ you _were mad at me, not the other way around.” His tone is colder than he intended, but he figures it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

“Yes, that… Well, I figured I may have overreacted a bit. It’s kind of… a knee-jerk reaction, you know, in my situation. Do you… If you were inclined to forget it, I’d say we probably could move on and, you know, start fresh. Mmh?”

Fell’s heart makes its way back into his chest, which would be a good thing, anatomically speaking, if it wasn’t beating like mad. Is Crowley really inferring what Fell is assuming he’s implying? Then something dawns on him and he narrows his eyes. “You need something from me, don’t you?”

Crowley makes the sound of someone who is shocked, I say, shocked at this suggestion, and is seriously considering hanging up. Which of course he doesn’t, because he needs, after all, something from him. “Listen, hear me out before telling me to fuck off. If you don’t like the idea, it’s no big deal. I’ll find some backup somewhere else. I always do.”

The thing is, Fell is not sure he believes him. He doesn’t know where it comes from, this easiness in reading someone he barely knows, but of one thing he is certain: he has to make a decision quickly, or this whole business will cause him a heart attack. “Fine.”

Crowley inhales, like he’s preparing to make his case some more, then stops. “Really?”

“Yes, go on.” Unbeknownst to Crowley, Fell is using his business voice, the one he reserves for the suppliers and everyone else trying to sell him something. It’s made of one part extreme politeness and one part inflexibility. It’s the only weapon he has and it’s surprisingly effective in calming him down.

“Well, the thing is… The thing is, I have a book thing coming up. Well, two book things.”

“What ‘thing’?”

“A couple of talks, signings… Nothing too different from what we did at yours.”

There’s a long-ish silence. Fell decides that, if Crowley will not elaborate in the next three seconds, he’s going to hang up on him. He will.

One. Two…

“The thing is… I cannot go alone. For… reasons. Very valid reasons. And Bee can’t make it.”

“Are you asking me to take you somewhere? I don’t drive, so I can’t see how…”

“Oh, no, _ I’m _driving. I’m just in need of… company for a few days.”

“_ Days? _ Where exactly in London are you planning to do these… book things?”

Honestly, Crowley’s hesitation alone could tell him all he needs to know about this whole idea, and why it would be a very bad decision to continue this conversation.

“It’s in Sussex.”

“_ Sussex? _You are asking me to come with you to bloody Sussex?”

Under his breath, Crowley murmurs something dangerously close to: _ Oh, no, I’ve made him swear _ , which makes Fell bristle even more. He has a nice list of objections and general reactions, _ No _ being the first and foremost. “When?” he asks instead.

A sharp intake of breath. “Does it mean yes?”

“It means _ when _. I cannot simply drop everything and… and take a vacation.”

“Why not?” He seems genuinely puzzled. “You’re your own boss.”

“Because… because of business reasons, that’s why. It’s almost Christmas, after all.”

“It will only be a weekend. Saturday morning to Sunday evening. Everything’s already booked, Bee has taken care of all the reservations and the related… thingies.”

“So why aren’t they coming?”

“They won’t let them out of the hospital, it seems.”

“_The hospital? _” Everything in this conversation is making him feel like he’s running a steeplechase.

“Broken leg or something. They won’t let me visit, said they had a reputation to keep. The good thing is, I have all the paperwork here with me.”

It is just like him, Fell thinks, to find himself in this kind of situations. He’s sure there’s plenty of thrill-loving, adventure-seeking people bemoaning a lack of excitement in their lives, while he’s out here, unwillingly living their dream.

The bad part is that he's never been able to say no when someone asks for help. Sometimes, to his dismay, they don't even have to ask. It's a great inconvenience. Well, for him, at least.

“So, what do you say?”

“Why are you asking _ me _?”

There’s a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “The truth? You’re the only person I could ask who would say yes.”

Eventually, Fell will find a way to never see another human being again. It’s unbearable, being such an open book for everyone.

“Listen, I don’t trust anyone, as a rule. I can’t, as you can imagine. But some things… Some things were brought to my attention that led me to believe you really meant your apology. I still don't like some of its implications, by the way, but the truth is that maybe I can't afford to turn away the people who really care. Pretty sure you are one of them.”

It’s Fell’s turn to sigh. “Saturday, you said?”

“Saturday, yes. I can pick you up and take you back. Everything’s already paid, so you don’t have to worry about that. And you’ll be getting what Bee would be getting if they came along, which is not much, but should be enough for your trouble.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, I couldn’t possibly take your money. And I still haven’t said yes.” There’s a longish silence. “Crowley, are you still there?” 

“I’m waiting for you to say it.”

“I’m not agreeing to something like this by _ phone _.”

“Fair.” Crowley’s composure is entirely fake, Fell’s _ certain _of it. “Can I come by tomorrow to talk to you some more about it?”

“I’m sure you will even if I say no.”

“Listen, if you tell me you don’t want to see me ever again, I’ll…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I will see you tomorrow”, Fell cuts him short.

At least, judging from his tone, Crowley seems properly chastened. “See you tomorrow, then.”

Fell hangs up, barely suppressing the urge to scream.

“You are going _ where _ with _ who _?”

When he calls Anathema, the day after, Fell expects a reaction of this sort from his friend. Well, the words are there, at least; he’d imagined them uttered in surprise or scandal, though, not in what is definitely delight.

“First of all, I haven’t say yes yet.” Why does everyone keep assuming that? “There are still a lot of things to consider. And it’s ‘with whom’.”

“And I hate you. What things?”

“Well, I can’t just close the shop and go at a moment’s notice.”

“You still have several days to reschedule any appointment with your clients. And you close every year for a week anyway, even if it takes you a couple of days max to do your inventory.”

She’s right and they both know it. 

“It still doesn’t seem advisable to just… go on a trip with someone I barely know, no matter how much I want to.”

He swears he can _ hear _ Anathema smile. “Oh, Zira, and just how much do you want to?” She laughs when he sputters and saves him the trouble of answering. “It’s not like you don’t _ know _ him. There have been a few bumps on the road, that’s true, but they are all out of the way now, yes? Besides, this is how you make friends: you take small risks until you trust each other. Or you don’t, I guess. But I have a good feeling about this.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I like him. Now, at least. I don’t care for the way he handled the whole business with the letter, but his apology seemed sincere, right? Plus, his books are awesome and he’s definitely an interesting person.”

That’s an understatement. He lets the silence stretch, hesitant to tell her what’s really bothering him. He takes in a big breath. “Why do you suppose he asked me?”

“Well, I don't know the specifics, and you're supposed to ask _ him _, not me. But my guts tell me that he likes you, at least a little.”

Something funny happens into Fell's chest at those words, and it's unpleasant. It's not that he doesn't trust Anathema's guts, quite the opposite. It's that he doesn't know what to do with this knowledge.

“Besides”, Anathema goes on, “if he knows what’s best for him, he’d better appreciate the hell out of you. Especially since you’re doing him a favour.” She sounds ready to punch him in the face if he doesn’t. “If you decide to go, that is.”

It turns out that, along with the hotel reservation, the printed schedule and all the other documents, Ms B.L. Zebub (as their barely legible signature says) has left him a list of useful tips and recommendations.

It’s not a nice list. First of all, it seems as if it’s been written with their left hand by someone who’s not left-handed. Secondly, its contents are often ominous, not in and of themselves, but because of what they imply.

_\- make sure he eats at least once x day_  
_\- coffee is NOT food no matter what he says_  
_\- hes pretty good at keeping things separated, but makes sure he doesnt wear makeup to the _ _OTHER_ _ events!!  
__\- if he disappears without warning hell almost certainly turn up again_

It goes on for quite a while, ending with the recommendation to _ DESTROY THIS LIST!! _Fell skims it while trying to ignore the fact that Crowley is in his shop. It’s very hard. He doesn’t know whether it’s a recent thing or if he just never noticed before, but the man seems incapable to stay still. He is always fidgeting, standing on one feet, leaning, picking up things and putting them down, flexing his fingers…

When Fell lifts his eyes from the list, slightly dazzled and a bit bothered by the spelling, he sees him rolling the antique globe. “Please don’t”, he can’t help himself saying. “You almost broke it once already.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. “I would never!” But he clasps his hands behind his back anyway. “Listen, the truth is that, like I told you on the phone, I can’t go alone. These things… meeting people, answering questions, I love it, but I get really nervous. And having a… friendly presence along usually helps.”

Fell blinks. He can hardly imagine someone as cool and confident as Crowley getting _ nerves _. On the other hand, he’s quite jittery right now, so he supposes it’s not so hard to believe. He can certainly empathise, if nothing else. 

He sighs (he can already tell he’ll be sighing a lot) and puts down the list on top of the other paperwork. Then he looks very deliberately in Crowley’s ever-present sunglasses with what he hopes comes across as determination. “As long as it’s clear that I am not replacing your assistant and that you’re responsible for yourself, I don’t see why not.”

Crowley tries not to smile and fails. It’s oddly charming. He saunters to the desk — he must think he is very cool, no doubt — and pulls a document from the pile. “Listen, I should have told you this before. There's a procedure, for stuff like this. Everyone who knows about the Thing” — he rolls his eyes — “has to sign a non-disclosure agreement. My lawyers made it so tight that we could sue the pants off of anyone who only thinks about breaking it. This one has your name on it.” He lifts the document, tears it in half and lets the pieces fall on the ground. “I hope it’s enough.”

Fell’s mind is full of exclamation points. “Enough?”

“To show you that I trust you. Please don't make me regret this decision. Bee would kill me and then you, too, just to be sure.”

The weight of the responsibility Crowley has placed on his shoulders suddenly feels a bit much. He wonders if it’s too late to say no. Probably not. “Fine”, he says instead. “Absolutely tickety-boo.”

“Tickety-boo?” Crowley repeats with a smirk, but he’s not making fun of him. He looks a little like he’s trying to decipher him, at least from what Fell can gather. Would it be too forward to ask him to remove the sunglasses? 

“Saturday at 8, then?”

“Saturday at 8.”

“To Eastbourne, then Brighton.”

“I guess those are the names of the places.”

Fell pales. “You’re supposed to drive us there.”

“I was joking.”

“Of course you were.” All the blood comes back in Fell’s cheeks and makes them burn, while he valiantly tries to ignore it. “Well, what could possibly go wrong?”

“I need to start making a list”, Fell mutters, five minutes after he sat into Crowley’s car.

He’s not sure _ car _ is the right word for this particular vehicle. Some would call it a _ vintage car _ , he supposes. He would personally go for _ extremely scary machine, especially in the hands of a writer who doesn’t seem to have any sense of self-preservation _.

“Of what?” On the other hand, Crowley seems completely relaxed as he speeds through London’s streets at unadvisable speed.

“Of all the things that can and will go wrong, if you keep trying to reach 90 miles an hour in central London.”

“I’ll have you know I have extremely quick reflexes.”

Instead of replying, Fell wonders if closing his eyes would be better.

Crowley kept his promise and drove by the bookshop to pick him up at 8 sharp. He really doesn’t need to know that Fell had been on the sidewalk since 7.45, with his neatly packed suitcase beside him, fidgeting with the shop’s keys, a copy of which he had given Anathema “just in case, my dear”. While he hoped he wouldn’t be late, he was pleasantly surprised when Crowley showed up on time.

Dressed in black from head to toe, as usual, with his red hair tied and the ever-present sunglasses, Crowley stopped the car and picked up Fell’s suitcase like a gentleman, stopping to open the passenger door of the sharp, extremely well-kept car that would later haunt Fell’s nightmares.

“I bet you love it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Making lists, I mean.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno. You strike me as the type who loves lists.”

“And what else have you assumed I like?”

It isn't meant to be a real question, but Crowley answers all the same. “Tea, definitely. Classical music. Old books, but that's a given. Fancy little restaurants where they know you. Theatre, but only very specific productions.” Crowley catches a glimpse of his expression and laughs. “Novelist, remember?” He seems about to add something, but changes his mind and keeps driving.

“There’s nothing wrong with lists.” Fells feels queasy. Closing his eyes was a mistake. “And it doesn’t seem fair that you can read me so easily, when I know almost nothing about you. Well, except for your books, of course.”

A devilish smile appears on Crowley’s face. “You’ll have to buy me dinner _ at the very least _, if you expect me to talk about what happened in 2000.”

“Why, what happened in 2000?”

Crowley laughs. “Yeah, nice one.” It takes a few seconds for him to catch on. “You mean you really don’t know?”

“I already told you I don’t.”

“But it’s the first thing that pops up on Google!”

“I'm not sure I've ever even opened the Google!”

“_The _Google?” Crowley snorts, but then he catches a glimpse of Fell’s blank expression. “Oh, shit, you're serious again. So you really don’t know.” He is stunned into silence. 

Thank the universe for the small miracles. Then Fell has to go and ruin it, of course. “Should I look it up?”

“No!” Crowley answers, too fast. “I mean, they write so many things. Wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression.”

“So tell me. Better to hear it from the horse's mouth, isn't it?”

Crowley laughs again. “Oh, no, I have to be a lot drunker to tell that story.”

“I'm sure it’s nothing so bad.”

“And what makes you so sure, pray tell?”

That’s a good question. “I am not the best judge of character, _ apparently_, but I think that, at heart, you are at least a bit of a good person.”

Crowley laughs again, but this time the self-deprecation makes Fell wince. “What, have you assumed that by reading a couple of my books?”

“I didn’t read _ a couple of your books_, I’ve read all of them”, Fell retorts, before he can think better of it.

The pause in the conversation is long enough to make him realize the enormity of what he’s just said. _ Oh, good Lord. _“I am a fast reader.” He winces. What a pathetic thing to say.

To his surprise, Crowley snorts. Fell even catches a flash of teeth. 

Thankfully, he drops the subject and they continue the journey in companionable silence. Fell is used to long, uncomfortable silences in the presence of other people, or at least he was, back when being alone wasn’t an option. (“Zira, don’t be rude, child. Go play with the other kids. Be normal.”) He’s had meaningful conversations with some of his clients, and of course there are Anathema and, now, the book club kids. But he could never completely shake off the feeling that he’s performing, at least a little bit, when he’s with other people, even friends. That he has to be polite, proper, a little fussy. It’s not very much of an imposition, to be honest, but sometimes he wonders what would happen if he stopped examining his every thought before he puts it into words, vetting every gesture and expression.

And then there’s the inexplicable feeling that Crowley doesn’t care about all this.

He doesn’t know what to make of it.

They stop in a town named Crawley to have breakfast (Crowley rolls his eyes when a smiling Fell suggests it, but pulls over nonetheless). Fell takes his time choosing the best-looking pastries on display in the roadside coffeeshop and makes sure they have an acceptable selection of teas, while Crowley orders a black coffee and sits at a table near the window, waiting for him.

Fell joins him a while later with his order, not paying much attention to the way the sun coming through the dirty window brings out golden strands in his deep red hair, or how his body looks like a black question mark, slumped as it is on the chair. He sets down a cup of tea and two piled saucers with two pastries on them, one cream and one dark chocolate. He sits down and puts the second pastry on the spare saucer.

Crowley looks from the window to the table.

“I couldn’t choose”, Fell deadpans.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Although I think I’ll have the cream one. It pairs better with Oolong.” That’s a bald-faced lie, but no one else at this table has to know.

The way the rays of sun hit the surface of the sunglasses, he can make out the way Crowley suspiciously narrows his eyes.

Fell sips his tea, serene. “So, how did you and Ms Zebub meet?”

Crowley shifts in the chair, crossing his long legs on the side of the too-small table. “We were in Hell together.” 

“I’m sorry?”

“Uni. We met as freshmen at Cambridge. Shared a dorm room for a while.”

“Co-ed?”

“More like administration didn’t know what to make of Bee, so I convinced the higher-ups to put us together, since I was the only person Bee tolerated.”

“They don’t seem to like you very much now, to be honest.”

“I specifically said ‘tolerated’. That’s why I know I can trust them, by the way. There are no feelings involved. Just pure business.”

“And that is preferable to… what? Authentic human relationships?”

Crowley gives him a pot-calling-the-kettle-black look over the sunglasses. It’s only a fleeting moment, but Fell is certain he’s seen gold in his irises, confirming his previous suspicions. He takes a bite of pastry, biding his time. “Mmm, this is actually quite good.”

“Good thing you got two of them.”

“Mmm. Why the sunglasses, if you don’t mind me asking?”

With a beleaguered sigh, Crowley takes them off and rubs his eyes. “They are prescription glasses. My eyesight is rubbish.”

“That is… not what I expected.”

“You thought I wore them to look cool?”

“Something like that. But why dark glasses?” 

Crowley smirks. “To look cool. Nobody ever died of too much style.” 

Fell stifles a laugh. “I am not even sure that's true.” 

They finish their breakfast in silence, then Fell leans back on his seat and slides the saucer with the chocolate pastry across the table. “Well, I’m stuffed. Have this one. We can’t let a pastry this good go to waste, can we?”

By the way Crowley looks at him, it’s clear he understands the game Fell’s playing at, but won’t submit himself to the embarrassment of telling him so. With one swift gesture, he gets up, takes the pastry and stuffs it in his mouth. “Leggo”, he says, his mouth full.

Satisfied, Fell cleans his hands on a paper napkin and follows him.

They reach Eastbourne well before lunchtime, after an uneventful journey on the monotonous A22. There’s always something special about the sea. It catches Fell off guard, this time, because he has had too many things on his mind to anticipate the drab landscape of inland Sussex being replaced by lovely Victorian houses and terraces, with only a narrow road and a stretch of sand to separate them from the shining chromium waves. Wide strokes of champagne-coloured sand, earth-green grass, pale blue water and a vast expanse of cerulean nothingness are stacked onto each other, blending and bleeding into each other like a seascape painting.

The Christmas decorations — they _ do _ appear earlier each year — are rare and unobtrusive, and, when Crowley pulls over in front of a white two-storey hotel with light blue details, it takes Fell a moment to realise they have reached their destination.

Meanwhile, Crowley has already gotten out of the car and taken both of their suitcases. He looks into the passenger window as he passes by. “Are you coming?”

“Of course. Let me help.”

“Oh, you can. There’s another one of these in the trunk”, he says with a grin as he leaves.

“We’re only staying a night.” But Crowley's already gone, so Fell sighs and retrieves the last piece of luggage.

The hotel staff is brisk and polite, which has an immediate calming effect on Fell as they go upstairs to their respective rooms.

“What are our plans for today?” Fell asks before they go their separate ways.

“How about we reconvene later and discuss it over lunch?”

“Marvelous. I happen to know of a little Italian bistro not very far away from here.”

A smug smile appears on Crowley’s face. “Fancy little restaurants: check.”

“Oh, don’t gloat. Maybe we could take a walk before that?”

“I was planning to go for a run, actually.” Stretching his arms as wide as the hotel corridor, Crowley seems suddenly embarrassed. “It takes away some of the stress.”

From Ms Zebub’s half-hearted attempt at outlining the schedule of the trip, Fell knows that Madame Ashtoreth will be the star of the evening, while Anthony J. Crowley will be signing his latest book in an independent bookstore in Brighton tomorrow afternoon. “That’s perfectly all right. I’ll wait for you in my room, then. Come knock at my door when you’re ready to go.”

Crowley nods. “Will do.”

_ Do you want to tell me? _

It’s a simple enough question, one whose phrasing Fell has been turning over and over in his mind since before they entered the restaurant, all throughout their conversation — apparently, while running on the seafront Crowley has spotted some interesting places that Fell absolutely has to see too —, while they were eating — he had been dying to try their pasta alla carbonara and found it absolutely scrumptious; Crowley ordered a salad, but he must have liked it, since Fell caught him with a thoughtful expression more than once —, waiting for a lull in their easy banter, and then another, and then another. 

He knows he’s procrastinating, and he suspects Crowley knows it too, but he just can’t bring himself to ask. It seems like a breach of trust, an unnecessary prying into something that Crowley would share if he wanted. But he doesn’t want him to think he’s not interested, either, that it doesn’t matter.

_ Or should I say: Are we ever going to talk about it? Your double identity? _

He sighs. Of course he’s overthinking this, too. “When will we leave, tonight?” he asks instead.

Folding his napkin on the table, Crowley gives him an uncertain look. “The convention starts at eight, but I was thinking of going out at about six. To get ready and all that. And… I’ll go alone to this one.”

“Oh.” _ Why am I here, then? _It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t. “That’s fair, I suppose. I’ll see you from the audience, then.”

Now Crowley is scratching the back of his neck and he’s no longer looking at him. “’T would probably be better if you stayed at the hotel.”

It takes Fell a few more seconds to understand. “You don’t want to risk us being seen together to both events, do you?” 

“It’s really for the best. I’m used to do… _ this _alone, anyway. It’s not that I don’t appreciate…”

“Of course, I understand.”

“Tomorrow in Brighton I could definitely use your help.”

“I hope so.”

“And I’ll be back to the hotel as soon as it’s over. Maybe we can talk about it after? A nightcap, if you fancy one?”

The smile that tugs at Fell’s lips is spontaneous, bittersweet and has no business being here. At all. “That sounds lovely. Knock at my door, then. Again.”

A similar smile, tentative and grateful. “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome.” Suddenly, the idea of sitting for another second is unbearable. “Shall we go and see this pier you were talking about?”

“Of course.”

As soon as the waiter leaves the bill on their table, Fell reaches for it, but Crowley snatches it from his fingers, brushing them in the process. “My treat. I have a budget for these things.”

Normally, Fell would have a comeback for such a statement — _ Yes, and the budget comes from your hard-earned money, which is as good as mine _—, but his mind is too busy elaborating the fact that their hands just brushed.

And that he wasn’t bothered by this physical contact in the slightest.

They take a stroll from the restaurant to the pier, and they talk about Agatha Christie and that Poirot movie, but Crowley’ becomes more and more laconic as the sun goes down.

“Is there something you do to prepare yourself?” Fell asks, deciding for once to tackle the matter instead of ignoring it. “Like, oh, I don’t know, study your material? Doing breathing exercises?”

Stretching his arms overhead, Crowley makes a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Nah, I’m fine.”

_ You don’t seem fine, my dear boy_. His expression must give away what he thinks, because Crowley snorts. 

“I enjoy meeting the fans of my novels. Well, the science ones' too, but, I don't know, there's something to them. They have bit of a lost soul thing going on, and they're all so desperately hungry for romance and happy endings. It's lovely. They're one of the reasons I go to all the trouble of… dressing up.” He doesn't look at Fell as he says that. “I like to do this kind of conventions periodically, even when I don’t have any book to promote. My publisher insists I should make people pay for admission, so we could do more than just even out our finances, but I really, _ really _ don’t like the idea. Plus, Bee is always happy to tell him no, so everything works out fine.” 

The wind plays with a few loose strands of Crowley’s hair. They are halfway across the pier and Crowley’s looking at the Channel, which under the now overcast sky is grey, almost concrete-coloured. It’s still remarkably warm for the season, and Fell feels a bit hot under his coat and scarf.

“It’s just the before. I get a little nervous, that’s all. It’s not so different from a performance, except sometimes I think I never feel more like myself than in those moments.”

Fell is about to reassure him with some standard empathetic but ultimately empty words, then he stops himself. He owes him more than that. “You are changing lives, my dear. And you make it seem so easy.”

Crowley turns and flashes him a smile. “That’s all we can aspire to, right? Make a change. Hopefully for the better. Okay, let’s go back. I need to take a nap before it's six o’clock.”

Later, stepping into his hotel room, Fell is plunged into darkness. He fumbles for the switch and, when the bright LED lamp turns on, he sees that the heavy black curtains are fully drawn. He crosses the small room, dodging the suitcase he left at the foot of the bed, and draws the curtains to let the late afternoon light pour in.

He wonders how it is possible to be filled with such a deep sense of peace while feeling like a violent rainstorm is raging all around him, wailing and electric.

He takes his shoes and bowtie off and lies down on the bedspread, breathing in the silence dotted with the hotel’s faint noises, the distant sounds of cars and passers-by. Everything is a reminder that there’s still an outside world, and it’s safely closed off.

He thinks about roguish smiles, amber eyes and little touches that don’t bother him.

He must have drifted off at some point, because he’s woken up by the telephone ringing. He barely noticed the old fashioned device on the nightstand, but there’s no missing it now, since its rings could raise the dead. As he reaches for the handle, his groggy mind registers that the room is considerably darker than before. What time could it be? “Hello?”

“Oh, it’s you, _ finally _. Don’t be mad at me, please.”

The grogginess is instantly gone. “Crowley? Is something the matter?”

“I might be in need of some help.” He sounds strangely hushed, like he’s hiding from something or someone.

“What happened?”

“It would be much simpler if I explained in person. Today, at lunch, you mentioned you know how to sew, right?”

_(“Of course I know how to sew! I live alone.”_

_“I live alone, too, and I’ve never even thought about it!”_

_It was just before: “When are we going to acknowledge the fact that it's 2019 and you don't own a mobile phone?”)_

Fell runs a hand on his face and through his hair. “Where are you?”

“Already at the venue. You can find the address in the papers, you still have those, yeah? Can you come over real quick? And bring your sewing kit?”

“Yes.”

“I owe you. Really. Ask me anything.”

“That’s really not…”

“Right, I have to go. I’ll wait for you at the back door. It’s not hard to find, just go in the back.”

“That is where you usually find…”

But the audio signal tells him that Crowley has already hung up.

“I would never have bothered you, but none of the Millennials in the staff knows how to hold a needle.”

Squinting, Fell pulls the black thread through the needle’s eye. “I know plenty of crafty Millennials. You’re just having bad luck.” That’s something of a lie, because he knows exactly one (Alex, Lori’s roommate, who made his own Madame Ashtoreth’s costume from scratch), and he’s not even one-hundred-percent clear on the current definition of “Millennial”.

It’s only been half an hour since he hung up the phone in his room and he asked directions at the reception, finding out that the convention venue was only a ten-minutes walk from the hotel. A fair amount of people already lined up outside, not a Barbican-worthy crowd but still a good turnout. The weather was still mild, although the sun had already gone down.

He did indeed find Crowley outside the back door. He had his hair down and the collar of his coat up, trying to look inconspicuous and failing completely. When he spotted Fell, he looked around to see if someone was watching and then almost pushed him inside, leading him through a couple of dark corridors until they reached a sequence of closed doors.

_(“The back door? Really?”_

_“What, you wanted a red carpet?”_

_“No, but if I was a reporter that’s where I would hide to catch snippets of the mystery writer and their entourage.”_

_“You’d make an excellent paparazzi. Let’s go, now.”)_

Crowley opened a dressing room door and guided Fell inside with a hand on his elbow. After checking the empty corridor one last time, he closed the door, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Fell was starting to learn what that meant. 

“My dear, calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

Instead of doing so, Crowley went to the dressing table — a piece of the eclectic furniture in the badly-lit dressing room — and picked up a black garment, which he then tossed to Fell. “There. Look at the back.”

The garment in question was a skirt, whose zipper had apparently come unstitched for a good couple of inches. Even without looking at it too closely, it was clear that wearing it like that would have been impossible. On the other hand… “It’s not that bad. You could hold it together with a safety pin.”

“Yeah, I would need a safety pin for that.”

Fell rolled his eyes. “How do you live your lives, you… unprepared people?”

“We call you prepared people. Can you do something about it?”

Fell looked up from the torn zipper and, for the second time that day, a sarcastic retort died on his lips. Because Crowley was looking at him without sunglasses, and the full force of his pleading amber eyes almost floored him. “Of… of course I can.”

And here they are, a few minutes later, one sitting on a flimsy plastic stool and the other cross-legged on the dressing table. Their coats are piled on a chair somewhere, and Fell’s eyes are glued to the stitches as he frowns in concentration. The lighting is _ really _ bad, but he’ll make do. The reading glasses he always carries in his breast pocket help a little, anyway.

Crowley clicks his tongue. “I should have foreseen that.”

“You should have. Pity you don’t have a pragmatic bone in your body.”

“I do too! I’ve had a fucking double identity for years and kept it a secret from almost everyone.”

“_Almost _ being the operative word, here. It didn’t take a lot of sleuthing to figure that one out, you know.”

“It was a freak accident.”

His defensiveness is so ridiculous that Fell can’t help but smile as he reaches for the scissors. He carefully cuts the thread so it’s invisible on the outside. “You keep telling yourself that, my dear.”

“It was.” Crowley’s tone is suddenly forlorn. “Sometimes I think that nobody has ever figured it out before because nobody actually cares. Nobody’s ever looked close enough.” Then he looks at him.

Once again, Fell is at a complete loss for words. A part of him idly thinks he must look as if something hit him in the head. He certainly feels like it.

Then Crowley extends a hand. “The skirt?”

“Oh, right.” He grabs awkwardly at the fabric, making the scissors fall in the process. 

They both reach for them at the same time, but Crowley takes them first, holding the crumpled garment in the other hand. After a moment, he hands them to Fell. “You were very kind to come. Thank you.”

“Nothing at all.”

“You should probably go, now, though.”

“I guess I do. Break a leg. Isn’t that what they say in these circumstances?”

“Works for me.”

“See you later, then.”

“Yeah, the nightcap. You still up for that?”

“Of course.”

Neither of them moves, until something snaps inside Fell. _ This is unbearable_, he thinks, not for the first time, and he nods as he makes his way out of the dressing room, without giving Crowley another look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all welcome to bother me on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com) anytime.


	5. Blues and Pour a Little Everything Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still *not* the chapter that makes the fic earn its rating. It was _going_ to be, then it threatened to become a 16k monstrosity and I had to split it (remember when this was supposed to be a four chapters affair? Yeah). I'll also edit the chapter number, as soon as I figure out how many chapters I'll need to wrap this up.  
I wrote much of this chapter while (drinking extraordinary amounts of alcohol and) listening to the Cocteau Twins’ _Cherry-coloured Funk_, and that’s also where its title comes from.  
Thanks, now and ever, to [TheGan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGan/pseuds/TheGan) for being an awesome beta and friend.
> 
> This chapter now comes with the fanart that the amazing @seekwill did for me in December!

_ Even before she challenged everyone’s expectations and became a spy, Eden wasn’t the kind of girl that waited for things to come to her. As she stood up, she wondered why she had waited so much to claim the only thing that she really wanted in her life. _

_ The siren’s cry died out and she heard someone coughing. Then Aniela rose from the church’s rubble, apparently unscathed by the building’s collapse. Was that some sort of miracle? A compensation of sorts, after Aniela had risked her life to warn Eden of the betrayal? _

_ She knew one thing, though. As she made her way through the rubble and grabbed Aniela’s arms — _ Alive, she’s alive _ —, as they held onto each other, she knew that she couldn’t wait anymore. _

_ Still, as she raised her hands and took the face of her enemy in her hands, fear crept into her mind. “I shouldn’t be falling in love with you, should I?” she asked. _

_ Aniela shook her head, but put her hands on Eden’s anyway. “No. Bad idea. The worst, in fact”, she replied, emotion thickening her accent. Her face was dirty and her golden hair was covered in ash. She’d never been more beautiful. _

_ The cheeky smirk on her lips begged to be kissed. _

_ So Eden did. _

— from _ Falling Upwards _ (2012)

An unexpected, distinctly feminine voice almost makes Fell jump on the barstool. “A Scotch, please. Lagavulin, if you have it.”

It’s too early for the evening crowd and too late for cocktail hour, a thoroughly wrong time to be haunting the hotel bar. Until a moment ago, Fell was alone. After leaving Crowley to his own devices in the auditorium, with both his mended skirt and his own heart in his hands, Fell came back and went straight to the bar, where he ordered a glass of the white wine with the more acceptable ratio between quality and price, and swallowed it down.

Maybe an hour has passed since then, but there are still plenty of places to sit without invading his personal space. 

The red-headed woman never even glances towards him as she settles and tastes the whisky. Only then she turns towards Fell, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “So, what’s your poison?”

Fell blinks slowly. His glass is empty, true, but you don’t have to be particularly perceptive to see he’s not looking for company. “My dear lady, if you are trying to offer me a drink, I must politely decline.”

The woman’s red-tinted lips part in a grin. It’s a bit unsettling, but Fell can’t pinpoint why. “I’ve had a pretty good day. I have reasons to celebrate and nobody to do it with.” She takes another sip, then gestures to the barman again. “I’ll have the bottle, please.” She drains the content of her glass and helps herself to another generous splash.

Fell’s not sure how to qualify this particular social interaction, so he stays silent. Also, something in his guts — which are admittedly not trustworthy as, for instance, Anathema’s — tells him not to trust her.

The woman sighs. “What. A. Day. If I was the captain of a whaling ship, I would be hot on Moby Dick’s tracks.” She scrunches her nose. “Not sure about the terminology, actually, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, quite.” Fell recoils a little. When he thinks about it, the woman reminds him a bit of Crowley: she has the same cock-sure swagger, but no empathy or gentleness to temper it.

“What about you? Bit out of season, to be on the seaside. Were you up to something fun, today?” She gives him a shameless once-over that Fell catches out of the corner of his eye and makes him even more uncomfortable. “With someone, maybe? Who’s coming to meet you here?”

The business voice comes once again to save him. “This is quite a number of assumptions.”

“I see.” She hums, like she’s in on some private joke. “Well, if you ever remember something noteworthy about who you’re spending time with…” She takes a card from a pocket of her leather jacket and slides it across the polished wood counter. “People find it easy to talk to me about things.”

Fell can’t help but read the name on the card. 

_ Carmine Zingiber, freelance reporter. _

He looks at her like she had sprouted another head. “I am afraid I don’t quite know what you’re…”

But she cuts him off. “That’s not necessary, honey. Just know that, if you ever have _ something _to talk about, my number and my email address are on that card.” Then she stands up and her lips curve in that smile again, the one that makes Fell feel as if insects are crawling on his skin. “Have a good night. And say hi for me to the person you’re waiting for.”

She disappears, leaving Fell a little shell-shocked, wondering what just happened. 

After a moment, he takes the card and puts it in his pocket. He can’t very well leave it there: he’ll throw it in the trash later.

“Oh, good, you’ve already taken care of the alcohol.”

A couple of hours later, the hotel bar is considerably more populated. It is also very badly lit, probably on purpose. When Crowley sits down next to Fell and takes off his glasses, folds them and puts them down on the counter, Fell can barely see his eyes. He can still make out dark circles under them, though. Crowley’s hair is down, but still has waves in it.

His presence is sudden as a lightning strike, but it soothes Fell immediately. He’s been meditating on another glass of wine since the reporter from Hell vanished, and, even as he had a lot to process, it’s nice to not be alone with his thoughts anymore.

“I need a shower and a drink, not in that order.” Crowley gestures to the barman for two glasses, takes the bottle of Lagavulin and pours generously.

Fell watches him inhale the whisky without so much as a by-your-leave and pour himself another one. Despite his urgency and his weariness, he seems so at ease. So confident in his skin. Fell knows part of it is only a façade — he has seen the cracks in his armour. Crowley himself had let him see them. 

He shakes himself. What an idea to be entertaining, now. If he could write a strongly-worded note to himself, he would.

_ Dear Mr Fell, _

_ would you kindly refrain from reading too much into a neutral social interaction, thus developing an inappropriate and unrequited attachment to a third party? It is positively unfitting and frankly baffling. _

_ All the best. _

“Is everything all right?”

He belatedly realises Crowley’s looking at him, perhaps wondering what thoughts absorbed him so much. “Oh! Yes, tip-top. How did your evening go, my dear?”

With the expression of someone who’s only letting this go because he’s very tired, Crowley takes a sip of his second glass, pausing to actually taste the stuff, this time. “As well as could be expected. Which is to say, not bad. I mostly said the usual things, answered the usual questions.”

“And what would those be?”

“You should know, you’ve been there once.” Crowley snorts and looks into his glass. “Almost gave me a heart attack, that time, by the way.”

Fell is so flustered he doesn’t know what to say, but then Crowley laughs at his horrified expression. Fell tries to repress a smile of his own, primly smoothing his waistcoat for a lack of better things to do with his hands.

“Anyway, they usually ask about inspiration, plot points, sequels and so on. Somebody always tries to suss out the autobiographical parts. They think they’re being clever.” He smiles as if it’s adorable.

“I can imagine.”

“Tonight a kid barely out of high school asked if Eden Wandsworth’s double identity in _ Falling Upwards _was in any way inspired by my own life. Can you imagine?”

“The cheek. I would have liked to hear your answer, though.”

“I deflect those questions like anything. Got a gold medal in deflecting, me.” Crowley finishes his second glass and sighs. God, but he looks exhausted.

“Does it always work like that?” The question escapes Fell’s lips without warning. His tone is tense enough to convey that he’s not referring to philosophical points or audience questions. 

Crowley freezes, then pours himself another glass.

Well, since the damage is done… “You come and go through the back door, hoping nobody sees you and connects the dots? And you do all this alone.”

“Yes, of _ course _.”

Like it would be stupid to assume otherwise! “Oh, well, of course!”

Crowley frowns, still not looking at him. “Listen, I know how to handle this. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“It’s fine. It’s absolutely not taking a toll on every other aspect of your life, then?”

“Wh… Did you speak to my therapist? I said I’m fine. It’s a burden I can carry, no problem.”

His tone is ironic, but if Fell has learned something about Crowley is that there's a grain of truth in every self-deprecating thing he says. “Just because you can carry it, it doesn’t mean you have to.”

He can see his words hit home from the slight jerk in Crowley’s hand, the one that’s holding the glass. The not-yet-melted ice cubes rattle against its walls. 

Fell waits, patiently. 

“I do, I’m afraid.” Crowley’s tone is subdued, almost defeated. He sighs. “So, yeah. I guess my life is pretty messed up, right now.”

Fell raises his eyebrows._ Thank you for admitting that _. But he knows better than to interrupt him now. He turns so that they’re both facing towards the chaotic array of liquor bottles in the bar and not each other.

“Did you know I’m an orphan?”

“No, I didn’t.” He only knows what’s written on his books’ sleeves, and Crowley must know it, too. 

“Parents died when I was so little I have no memory of them. I was raised by my grandmother. A great, terrible woman. She loved me, in her own way, and supported me through everything until I could make it on my own. But she was so strict and self-absorbed that I couldn’t wait to get out of the house, always getting into trouble and being awful just for the hell of it. As I said, she loved me, but I don’t think she liked me very much, and had no qualms about telling me, either. Sometimes I still hear her voice in my head.” He rolled his glass. “Or, all the time. She made everyone call her Madame, even me.”

_ I see. _“What happened to her?”

“She died in 2000.”

Oh. Is this what he was talking about in the car, this morning? What was it he said about that date?

“Anyway, she left me with a substantial inheritance, an all-black wardrobe and a deep love for romance fiction. She had the biggest collection you could ever imagine, and I scarfed down every single book it contained right in my formative years. The absolute opposite of age-appropriate reading, but neither of us cared. On the other hand, there was Physics. I was a bit of an _ enfant prodige _on the subject, and no amount of fucking around in my teens could deny that. So I was sent to university at 17 and became an adjunct professor less than ten years later.”

He pauses for so long that Fell feels compelled to say something. “You make it sound like you had no choice in the matter.”

“What would you have done? If they barely stopped short of calling you the next Newton and served you a career on a silver platter, would you have refused?” Crowley taps his fingers on the glass. “I wasn’t so ungrateful as to waste that chance, or at least that’s what I told myself. And I wrote novels in my spare time, which was not much, but my life still had some kind of balance. And then Madame died and it all went to shit.”

Fell looks at him rubbing his eyes and thinks about doing something, saying something. But, just as he works up the courage, Crowley goes on.

“It fucked me up more than I could have anticipated. Suddenly I was alone in the world, and I had a bit of… a bad period, let’s say. After a while, though, I figured that also meant I had nobody to disappoint. And I was no longer a teacher, by that point, so I could be whatever I needed to be. Then, just as I was preparing to publish my first novel, another publisher offered me a deal for the astronomy book I was aching to write, just to rub it in the face of everyone in the damned academia. And Bee, who had been my assistant for a year and had physically dragged me out of the gutter by the scruff of my neck, made it clear that I couldn’t do both.”

“But you found a way.”

Crowley grins weakly. “My lifespan extends by a year every time I get to tell someone ‘I told you so’. Yes, both things were very important to me and I found a way to make them coexist. And that’s my tragic backstory, my dear Mr Fell.” He squints at Fell. “What about yours?”

There's so much more to his story, Fell knows, but he isn’t about to step on the thin layer of trust that alcohol and tiredness have built between them. “Well, nothing so exciting, really. I grew up in a large, close-knit family. Quite the opposite of yours. My parents are still alive, or at least I think.”

Crowley cocks his head. “You_ think _?”

“I haven’t spoken to them in… oh, I’m going to say fifteen years, give or take. Since the moment they told me that my choice was to leave London and take on my duties in Father’s law firm or stay away forever.” He can almost feel a prickling sensation on the side of his face that’s the focus of Crowley’s attention. “My family believes in rules. They taught me that, as long as I follow them, nothing bad can ever happen. In so many words, mind you. They taught me to mind my own business and think of myself and my own first. It took me years to leave that mindset behind me, and even now I have this… instinct I have to fight. To look the other way when someone's in trouble.”

“And that’s intolerable.” With his glasses still off, Crowley carefully pours two fingers of whisky in the second glass and makes it slide towards Fell.

“Was that sarcasm?”

“I’m one hundred percent honest. This is one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard anybody do.”

Fell is grateful for the half-light of the bar, but he looks away nonetheless, in case the room isn’t dark enough to hide his blush. “Thank you. And”, he adds, before the courage leaves him, “for what it’s worth, _ I _like you.”

At that, Crowley laughs. He’s not mocking him: it’s a good sound, surprised and raw, a bit more unrestrained than usual. “I had my doubts about that, for a moment. Thank you for setting my mind at ease.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You are.” He says it in the same tone he used earlier, in the dressing room, when he said that nobody’s ever looked closely enough at him. He lifts his glass. “Thank you, too, for not looking the other way when I asked for help.”

“You are very welcome.” 

Their glasses clink together with a strange solemnity. Best not to dwell on it.

As Friday night finds itself slowly transitioning into Saturday morning, they leave the bar. A sudden rush of determination courses through Fell after they’ve said goodnight to each other and walked to their rooms. It’s a strange emotion to be feeling right now, but he doesn’t know how to label it other than that. As he goes to bed, later, he makes an addendum to one of his mental lists, the one where he keeps track of the people he feels safe with. He adds a little question mark after Crowley’s name, more for propriety’s sake than anything else. He’s pretty sure he’ll be removing that soon. No need to rush.

Crowley looks surprisingly lively, the next morning, when they reconvene in the lobby as planned. The idea is to check out, have breakfast on the road and reach Brighton at around 12, find the bookshop where the signing will take place, check with the owner, have lunch and then prepare for the signing, which is set at 15. Everything — names, schedules, addresses — is neatly memorised in Fell's mind, a thing that happened largely last night when he couldn't sleep.

“Good morning”, says Crowley as soon as he sees him. He rises from the chair where he had been tapping away at his phone and saunters towards him, then he grabs Fell's suitcase and gives him in turn a big, white paper bag, from which a distinct smell of baked goods rises. “Here, let me get that. My stuff is already in the car and I'll have to Tetris this inside the trunk.”

The heavenly smell emanating from the bag is slowly making Fell feel alive again. “What’s… When…”

“I went for a run this morning and grabbed breakfast. Weather looks good and we'll be driving by the cliffs, today, so I thought we could go grab something warm to drink, stop somewhere on the road and have a sort of picnic with a view.” He says all this as he walks to the exit, confident that Fell would follow him, then turns around when he realises it isn't happening. He’s wearing his black coat over a dark grey turtleneck and he’s let his hair down. Fell looks for words to describe him, but nothing suitable comes to mind. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Are you coming?”

Horrified, Fell realises he must have been staring at him as if he were a painting at the Louvre. He hasn't moved a muscle since Crowley put their breakfast in his hands. He blinks. “Yes, yes, absolutely. It is a… very nice idea.”

“I'm very glad to hear it”, Crowley says slowly, as he keeps the door open for him.

Being enshrouded in such a cloud of kindness and sunshine while he’s not even properly awake is quite a bit to handle. Fell carefully steps on the sidewalk and opens his own car door before Crowley – who is currently trying to persuade all of their suitcases to fit into the car's tiny trunk – can get into his head to open it for him.

Crowley stops the car a while later. “We're not there yet, but you have to see this. Fancy a short walk? It’s not too cold, I don’t think, but if you’d rather stay in the car…”

“I think I can manage.” Fell softens the edge in his voice with a tentative smile. He sees it mirrored, but bolder, on Crowley’s face, and he flusters a little. He really shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. This. Whatever _ this _is.

They leave the car parked on the side of the road. Nobody seems to be here, even if it’s indeed a beautiful day. A light, salty wind blows from the sea, but it’s more invigorating than annoying. 

After a narrow stretch of grass, a perfunctory picket fence marks the edge of the cliffs.

Crowley stops. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

Fell shakes his head. “You?”

“No.” Crowley climbs over the fence and makes his way towards the edge. Fell follows him, and they stop side by side as close as it’s reasonable to be to the 500 feet drop.

If the quaint beauty of Eastbourne left him speechless with its sedated gracefulness, now it seems almost dull by comparison. The glorious expanse of the sea stretches before him as he stands high above it, the morning sun refracting on a myriad of tiny waves like spilled gold. There’s something ruthless and baffling about the cliffs themselves, in their jagged outlines, chalk white, naked and arrogant, as if they were laughing at them — two small and fragile creatures — in their timelessness.

It’s only when Crowley points at it that Fell notices the lighthouse. It’s far away, almost straight below them, looking like it surfaced from the sea itself.

“It’s an offshore lighthouse”, Crowley explains. “Imagine being the keeper of _ that _.”

“I am”, Fell says, a bit dreamily, which makes Crowley laugh. Fell smiles, a little self-conscious. He can’t get enough of this view, to drink enough to be full.

Crowley seems to understand, or perhaps he shares the feeling, because he lets a few minutes pass without saying anything. “We can stay here, if you like, but there’s a nice little beach a few miles from here, if you want a place to sit down properly.”

His voice shakes Fell from his reverie. “Oh, yes, I would love that.” 

It’s hard to tear his eyes away from the sea, at least until Fell catches a glimpse of Crowley lifting a hand towards him and then stopping abruptly, letting it fall again. It almost looked as if he had wanted to touch his shoulder and then changed his mind, or remembered something.

Fell acts before he can talk himself out of it: he gently brushes Crowley’s elbow with his free hand. It’s nothing improper or untoward. It’s a thing you would do, if you were walking with a dear friend and wanted to nudge or steady them. It’s over in less than a second. 

Why does it feel like a border has been crossed?

He doesn’t have a map, a compass, or any other way to chart these strange waters.

And yet he doesn’t feel lost.

Careful not to look in Crowley’s direction, Fell breaks the silence. “You know your way around these places. You’ve been here before, I gather.”

“A couple times.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but… why have you never used this as a setting for a novel? It looks almost too perfect.”

Crowley sighs and flexes his fingers. “Yeah, that’s the trouble. It’s too perfect. It deserves a good story. Maybe one day the right idea will come to me.”

“Maybe.”

Once the car doors have shut the chilly breeze out, Crowley starts the engine and they go on westward. It takes almost twenty minutes to reach the farthest point they’re allowed to go with the car, then they cover the remaining distance on foot.

You can’t see the lighthouse from here, but the Seven Sisters break into Fell’s chest and steal his heart without asking first. From sea level, the cliffs have an undeniable presence. They are a sea monster, frozen as it was leaping out of the waves.

He turns to Crowley, who’s looking at him with an expression that’s a perfect mix between smug and sympathetic. “I also stared at them like an idiot for twenty minutes, first time I came here.”

“Oh, do shut up.” But there’s no sting in the retort.

They bought coffee and tea before leaving Eastbourne — the latter is not scorchingly hot as Fell likes, but it doesn’t matter. The white paper bag contains a single buttery, fragrant, cream-filled pastry that could constitute an entire meal by itself. As they reach a patch of grass and sit on Fell’s coat — he’s quite warm in his abundant layers of clothes, and the mid-morning sun is surprisingly strong — to have breakfast, he finds out that twenty minutes is, give or take, the time he needs to break the cliff’s spell enough to speak again.

Fell can see Crowley sipping his coffee with his eyes closed behind the glasses, as if he’s performing a ritual. He shakes his head and breaks the pastry in half.

When Crowley opens his eyes and sees the silent offering, he groans.

“Don’t. I’m giving you the smaller half.”

He accepts and bites into the pastry with resignation. “You can wipe that smug smile off your face”, he adds right after.

Still smiling, Fell takes a sip of tea. “So, how does it feel not to be writing for an entire weekend?”

The answer is a light tap on the front pocket of his jacket, where his phone presumably is. “I’m never not writing.”

“On your _ phone _?”

“Don’t act so scandalised. What’s important is the words, right?”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“Remind me to never ask you what you think of e-books.”

Fell opens his mouth, then closes it again when Crowley gives him a pointed look over his glasses. He changes the subject. “You’ve published… how many books?”

“A fuckton, I’d say.”

“Right, a _ considerable amount _ of books. How do you do it?”

“I’m always writing. I literally don’t do anything else. For the astrophysics books, I have help.”

“Oh, yes, Adam Young. I remember. You credit him in every book.”

“Yeah, bright young thing. Or at least he was when he started in research. Every year in academics is seven in real life, it works just like with dogs. Don’t tell him I complimented him, it’ll go to his head.”

Fell smiles ruefully. “I promise I won’t mention it, If I’ll ever meet him.”

“You could.” Crowley is looking at the Seven Sisters, not at him. Maybe he isn’t even looking at anything, it is impossible to tell. “Meet him, I mean. After. When we go back.”

Fell has accurately avoided thinking about “after”, so far. Simply mentioning it makes his heart jump with a mixture of hope and fear and… something else. 

What will they do? Neither of them has made any plans, so far. Are they going to keep seeing each other? How will their schedules fit, since he has a shop to run and Crowley is unconscionably busy writing? Fell would feel so much better if they could talk about it, but there’s no way to put it that wouldn’t be weird.

The ugliest part of his brain offers him another perspective. Crowley is saying it only to be polite. He doesn’t actually want to spend more time with him than he absolutely has to. As horrible as this thought is, it is also sobering. This holiday from reality cannot last. He needs to be prepared.

Still, all the more reason to savour each moment. Glass half full and all that.

“I’d love to meet him.” His voice catches, but only a little.

They finish their breakfast in silence, listening to the waves and the wind, to the silent song of the sun warming them. Fell thinks silently about poetry, until the pressure in his chest becomes unbearable and he murmurs: “_ We have lingered in the chambers of the sea _”.

Crowley makes a surprised sound. “This place always reminds me of that. It’s made for those verses, right?”

Fell can’t help but smile. “Or vice versa.”

A while later, they get up, shake the sand from Fell’s coat and go back to the car. Fell tries not to think of the last line of the poem, but like every unwelcome thought it makes his way to the forefront of his mind.

_ Till human voices wake us. _

They’ve barely reached the car when Crowley’s phone starts pinging repeatedly. He sits on the hood as he looks at the screen, creasing his brow with worry.

“Is something wrong?” Fell asks, inanely.

“Seven missed calls from Bee in the past fifteen minutes.” 

_ And we drown. _

Crowley has just said it when the phone starts ringing. He looks at Fell and, without breaking eye contact, he answers.

Fell can hear Bee’s voice above the wind as if it was on speaker. “Where the hell have you been? I've tried to call you a million times. Something came up. Brighton is cancelled.”

“What?”

Fell leans involuntarily in, but it doesn’t seem to bother Crowley, who instead tilts his hand so Fell can hear better. (He probably has a good reason for not wanting to put Bee on speaker.)

“A reporter went to the bookshop, pretending to be part of our staff, and asked the owner for details. Lucky for us, she’s a smart woman and she stalled, then called me immediately to ask if it was bullshit.”

Fell’s heart skips a couple of beats, something that cannot possibly bode well. He had completely forgotten about the reporter. Could she be the same one who accosted him at the hotel bar, yesterday evening? How many journalists can be on Crowley’s heels?

“Was it Her?” Crowley says it as a librarian would ask: _ Is there a fire? _

“What do you think? I don’t know what she thinks she’s got, this time, but you can’t go to Brighton if that redhead bitch’s there.”

Yes, definitely _ Her _, then.

“I’ve already officially cancelled. We’ll reschedule when this all calms down.”

Crowley smiles sadly to Fell. He looks as if he’s keeping himself together with the flimsiest of strings. “Seems we’re going home early.” 

He sounds so crestfallen that Fell has to fight the urge to apologise. Before he can embarrass himself, Bee’s next words catch them both off guard. 

“No, you’re not. Don’t you see? It’s the bookseller’s fault. They’ve already come by his shop to sniff around.”

“They have _ what _?” Fell asks, louder than he intended.

A disgusted sound comes through the phone. “Of course he’s listening. Crowley, what did I tell you about putting me on speakerphone?”

Crowley ignores them. “How do you know they went to the bookshop?”

“Book Girl called me. Not important. They’ve also came lurching at your flat, but I sent a couple of my guys there, and Gabriel’s already drafting another cease and desist. That should get rid of the worst mosquitoes in a couple of days. You see how you dropping your boyfriend at his place now would send them in a frenzy.”

If his vocal chords cooperated, Fell would say something. His face feels so hot that it’ll probably catch fire soon.

“What, then? Go back to Eastbourne?”

“Are you listening to me? That’s Her we’re talking about. It’ll be the first place she checks when she realises Brighton’s a no show. No, you have to get off the grid until we solve this. Check in a motel, sleep in the Bentley, put up a tent. Just make sure you have signal, I need to be able to reach you anytime.”

“Are you serious?”

“The part about the tent was a joke, but yeah: take the cheapest place you can find, book under a fake name and pay cash. Try not to do anything stupid, please. My job’s at stake and I’m still in a fucking hospital room.” Then they hang up.

Crowley looks at the phone for a minute, incredulous. “_ Her job’s _ at stake”, he repeats. Then he looks up at Fell, whose face must be the colour of a stop sign. “Well, our schedule just cleared up, it seems.”

Fell licks his lips. There’s no easy way to do this, but he must. “Crowley, I have to tell you something.”

“Yes, I know. _ I told you so. _”

“I…” he starts, and then frowns. “I beg your pardon?” 

Crowley takes his glasses off and slides a hand across his face. “Her name’s Carmine Something or Other, I don’t actually care. She’s one of those glorified tabloid journalists that thrive on other people’s misery. She’s been trying to reveal Madame Ashtoreth’s secret identity for years. We’ve caught her sniffing around a few times, now. She probably caught us at the auditorium, yesterday.”

Fell shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes, probably, but there’s another… Look.” He reaches into his pocket and finds what he’s looking for. He gives the little, innocent paper rectangle to Crowley.

The transformation is uncanny. One moment he’s annoyed, yes, but still himself. A second later, his face turns to stone. “Where did you get this?”

“I meant to tell you, only I forgot. I’m so sorry. A woman talked to me last night, at the hotel bar. She gave me this. Crowley, I think she’s the same…”

Crowley cuts him off. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.” Fell hesitates. Honestly? “I think.”

“You think”, Crowley repeats mechanically. He shakes his head. There's steel in his voice. Mistrust. A wall has just been built in a matter of seconds. “Tell me. You have to remember. Did you tell her anything?”

“I… I don’t _ believe _…”

“That’s not good enough.”

Fell closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He goes over the conversation, despite the unpleasantness that dredges to the surface of his mind. “No. I didn’t tell her anything.”

“Are you sure?”

He opens his eyes again and looks into Crowley’s with what he hopes comes across as honesty and confidence. “I am positive.”

Crowley lets out a tremulous sigh. His fingers are dancing, flexing, moving as if he’s playing an invisible piano. “I have to trust your word for it, haven’t I?”

And that’s the moment Fell dreads more than any other. The moment when he has to break a promise to keep a heart from breaking, with the knowledge that it will probably break anyway. Well, someone’s heart, at least. He sighs. “No, you don’t. I signed the NDA.”

Crowley frowns. “No, you didn't.”

“Your assistant made me do it.” It’s easier, once the first words are out. “They sent one of your lawyers to the bookshop before we left. They… they knew you wouldn't have me sign the document yourself, so they made them draft another. I shouldn’t be telling you this…”

Putting his sunglasses on again, Crowley let out a baffled laugh. “What, did the terms specify it? Or did Bee tell you not to? Because I can understand if…”

Fell interrupts him, politeness be damned. “I didn’t tell you because it would have been mean and unnecessary. You wanted there to be trust between us, and I didn’t want to spoil it.”

There’s a long pause after these words.

Fell knows he’s ruined everything, but he also can’t see what he could have done differently. “_ And _Bee told me not to tell you”, he adds. “But I would have, if I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“You just did.” 

Is that resignation, in Crowley’s voice? Fell can only hope it’s not the sort of anger that sits quietly before boiling over. “I just did.”

They stay like this for a while more, Crowley leaning on the car and Fell looking in his sunglasses, when eventually Crowley speaks again. “Do you still want to come with me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I could drop you at the nearest train station. Lots of trains to London from Brighton, and I doubt the fucking station is patrolled.” 

Crowley’s voice is cold, detached, and Fell’s heart skips another beat when he realizes how his words must have sounded. _ “Do I have a choice?” Excellent phrasing, you idiot. _ “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not leaving you.” _ Not now, not like this. _

Crowley shrugs. “Let’s go, then.”

Fell was bracing himself for an outburst, but this is worse. Much worse.

It takes them a few hours to find a place that meets Bee’s criteria, and by then lunchtime has come and gone. Every reasonable option is either fully booked or closed for the season, until they reach a small cluster of cottages outside Peacehaven. Two of them are shut and empty, while the third has a dainty wrought iron sign that qualifies it as a bed and breakfast. The ivy that covers his façade almost hides the _ Vacancies _ sign that peeps out of the main window.

The sound of a small bell greets them as soon as they enter. It’s not hanging above the door, though, but on the collar of a long-haired grey cat, which jumps out of a basket on the reception counter and starts rubbing itself on Crowley’s legs as if he were its long lost owner.

Without hesitation, Crowley picks up the cat and scratches its chin. “Hello. Are you the manager or the welcoming committee?”

Fell laughs before he can help himself, and he catches Crowley smile as he keeps on scratching the cat. An olive branch? Does Fell dare to hope?

They find out that the hotel manager is not, in fact, the cat, but a bubbly and flirty lady with a patterned dress and an elaborate blonde coiffure. She introduces herself as Madame Tracy and she offers them tea within the first few minutes of their acquaintance.

“I see you’ve met Mr Shadwell”, she says cheerily, petting the cat that’s purring in Crowley’s arms. “I named him after my handyman, Mr Shadwell. He brought him to me, you see, and when I realised it could cause a bit of a mix-up, it was too late. Anyway, what can I do for you? Are you looking for a room?”

“Two, actually”, answers Crowley.

“It looks like I can help you, then. You’re lucky: I’ve had a cancellation just this morning! I have two rooms, very nice and cozy. Snug and with plenty of light.”

Judging from the entryway, the cottage is indeed nice. Two stuffed chairs with floral patterns and a small table between them face each other in front of a large window. There are a fireplace, plenty of plants and an amount of doilies that Fell generously judges “tasteful”. The mantelpiece and the desk are decorated with Christmas hangings, cheerful but not over the top.

As he looks around, Crowley doesn’t say anything. Fell is about to gently decline the offer, but then Crowley's eyes find his. “It’s a nice place. We haven't found anything else so far. And I like the cat. What do you say?”

What _ can _ he say? _ “It's fine, as long as you tolerate my presence”? _ “It’s… I’m… If you're sure.”

“I am.” Crowley turns towards Madame Tracy. “Let’s start with one night and take it from there, if it’s all right?”

Madame Tracy tells them that their rooms will be ready in an hour (“Two at most!”) and they go outside to take their suitcases inside. They don’t exchange one word more than necessary. As they make their way back to the cottage, Fell tries to think about something calm and peaceful, but the best his brain can do on such a short notice is to offer him memories of shared breakfast and poetry and meaningful looks, and they won’t do at all.

He sighs. This is very much not how he imagined the day would go.

Then he almost jumps out of his skin when Crowley lets both his suitcases fall on the floor and turns towards him. “Look, I know this wasn’t planned. Sorry if this bothers you.”

Fell is taken aback. He hasn’t complained a single time, yet it seems he’s the one mad at Crowley about their situation, and not the other way around. He is about to reply, then he doesn’t. 

This is different from when Crowley stormed into the bookshop. He looks guarded, tired, probably hurt. It’s been a fairly stressful day, to be fair, and it’s not even 3 o'clock. Fell wants to cuff him on the head and at the same time wrap him in every blanket he owns. “If there’s something you want to talk about, let’s just talk.”

“Why didn't you tell me about the NDA?” Crowley takes a deep breath. “From where I stand, it feels patronising. Do you think this is the first time someone doesn’t tell me something _ for my own good _ ? It's been my whole damn life.”

That’s enough. Fell’s patience has been stretched too much and it just… snaps.

The thing is, he isn’t loud or aggressive, when he gets upset. He’s cold and collected, which he’s been told it’s way scarier. He crosses the distance between them until he's face to face with Crowley, until he can see something of his eyes behind the lenses. “Would you stop jumping to the wrong conclusions for five seconds and let me explain?”

Crowley exhales from his nose. At least he doesn’t say anything.

“What, in my behaviour, has made you believe I think so little of you? Because I would say I’ve made it clear that I do care about you. Very much. I told you and I showed you, and yet you keep looking for reasons to feel betrayed. I cannot tell you how to feel, Crowley, and I most certainly won’t force you to tolerate my presence any longer, if you don’t want to, but aren’t you _ tired _?” He is a little out of breath, and inhales to steady himself. “I admit I’m not an expert, but someone told me that this is how you make friends: you take risks until you trust each other. I took a risk with you, one that I don’t regret, and I cannot ask you to do the same, but you must at least acknowledge this.”

Crowley sighs. Fell notices that he’s shaking. “I… am not good at this.”

Fell laughs, half hysterical and half relieved. “That makes two of us.”

“But I will try. I took a risk, too, you know. Big risk-taker, me. No sense of self-preservation whatsoever.”

“I know, my dear boy.”

“I don’t know what I thought would happen when I asked you to come with me. I didn't actually think you'd say yes, or at least I expected it to take more convincing. Then I guess I was waiting for proof that you couldn’t possibly be for real.”

_ Oh, good Lord. _“You still haven’t told me what made you change your mind. About… well, about me.”

“I will. I promise. Thing is… you’re still here. You’ve had a fairly precise idea of who I am for a while, now, and I don’t mean the double identity or the books, I mean… _ me _ .” He gestures to himself, a little frantically. “I am a _ horrible _ mess. I wouldn’t inflict _ this _on anyone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m… It’s a nightmare to be me, but it’s even _ worse _to be close to me. Believe me, it’s been made clear time and time again.”

Fell is horrified. What could have happened to this brave, kind, smart man — though at times, yes, admittedly insufferable — to make him think something like that? Why can’t he see how _ wonderful _he is?

Then it dawns on him.

It’s not so different from the way he thinks of himself.

_ So this is how Anathema feels all the time. _ “I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you”, he says, gently, “but everyone is a bit of a mess.” He pauses. “Although you _ are _horrible, sometimes.”

Crowley opens his mouth, looking more nonplussed than scandalised. Nothing comes out for a second or two, then he scoffs. “You’re not going to give this up, are you?”

Fell just shakes his head. 

No, if they are going to fall apart, it will be for a legitimate reason, one he will probably be responsible for, not Crowley’s paranoia and insecurity.

Crowley’s hands fly to his head, raking into his hair, making a mess of it. “I… you… I need some air.” And he goes out, leaving Fell alone, surrounded by their suitcases and with the echo of the door closing behind his back.

It takes a few minutes for the adrenaline to leave Fell’s system, then he starts shaking. He breathes in, exhales. 

Breath in, exhale.

At the end of the day, it could have gone worse.

A few more minutes pass before Fell goes out looking for him. He finds Crowley on the grassy stretch of land before the sand begins, still within sight of the cottage. He’s lying there on his jacket, in his shirtsleeves. It’s still much warmer than it would be in London, although the occasional gust of wind serves as a reminder that it’s almost winter. The temperature will drop as soon as the sun goes down, of course. Crowley doesn’t seem to care.

Fell considers the pros and cons of pretending he didn’t follow him and making a silent retreat towards the cottage. Pros: he won’t have to deal with… whatever this is. Cons: Crowley will probably catch his death. Pros: if he dies, he will take a lot of problems with him. Cons: he will take a lot of other things.

Fell goes back.

He returns with one of his knitted cardigans, a blanket and yesterday evening’s bottle of Lagavulin, which at some point must have found its way towards his suitcase (he doesn’t remember how it got there or whose idea was it. He will have to find some other way to make Crowley relax, for the sake of both of them, but for now liquor is the only effective weapon in his arsenal). He wordlessly throws the cardigan on Crowley’s supine form — he doesn’t look at his skinny wrists as he does this, at the red spill of his hair on black fabric, doesn’t dwell on the undone collar of his shirt and how it shows a glimpse of collarbone, on his long fingers, he doesn’t, he doesn’t —, drapes the blanket on the sand and sits on it.

He doesn’t have to turn around to know that Crowley’s looking at him. “What, did you miss my horribleness already?”

Instead of replying, Fell hands the whisky to him.

Crowley is about to say something, then he laughs and takes the bottle. “So this is how it’s gonna be from now on, right? You’re going to be all caring and annoying?”

Fell looks at him, cursing the sunglasses — they’re on a beach, after all, one of the few appropriate places for wearing sunglasses, so he can’t very well reproach him — and gives him his most self-righteous smile. “I learned from the most annoying person I know.” He doesn’t particularly care for the way his heart beats faster when he says that.

Crowley is still staring, but his expression changes into something more meditative. “Here, let’s play a game. I ask you a question and, if you don’t want to answer or you don't tell the truth, you have to drink. Deal?”

“Will you put the cardigan on if I agree?”

Crowley gives the thought careful consideration. “Yes.”

“Okay, then.”

The pale grey sweater is old and a bit oversized even for Fell, and drapes on Crowley’s scarecrow body as if it were a blanket. “I’ll start. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

Fell briefly ponders whether to ask for the bottle and drink, but he has to choose his battles. “All right. The A in my initials stands for ‘Angel’.”

Crowley’s gasp is delighted. “Are you kidding me?” 

_ Worth it. _ “It's Spanish, actually.” He says it as it should be pronounced, to the best of his ability. “My mother taught Spanish and she liked the name. It made school a little more difficult than it would have been anyway, for a kid like me.”

“A kid like you”, Crowley echoes.

Over the years, Fell has learned to distance himself from his past, from the things he doesn’t want to remember, and his tone is neutral, flat. “You know. Chubby. Lonely. Bookish.” He pauses, fidgets with his cuffs. “Not interested in girls, later. Things like that make you stand out, when all I wanted was… well, to disappear, to be honest.”

“So you became a wallflower.”

“Mmh. I guess that’s true.”

After a moment, Crowley laughs and holds out the whisky. “Drink, Mr Fell.”

“Why? It's the truth.”

“That was a nice story, but you expect me to believe you’ve never told _ anyone _your first name?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it, I’m afraid. The only people who know were either the ones who chose it, or they found it out on their own. Oh, and now you, of course. So, no, I’m not drinking. What about you? Is there something you have never told anyone? Shouted from the rooftops? Stormed into someone’s shop to yell it at them?”

“Nice way of turning this around. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a bastard, underneath your… innocent… wallflower façade?” But Crowley’s tone is more appreciative than offended.

“My friend Anathema did, a couple of times. So? Answer the question or drink.”

Crowley laughs. He meditates for a second, like he’s considering whether to drink or answer. Then it must dawn on him that he can do both, because he shrugs, leans on his elbows, opens the bottle and takes a sip of whisky. When Fell raises his eyebrows, he explains: “I’ll need it if I’m going to answer this. Okay, here we go. I am… a fucking coward.”

“Stop it”, Fell answers automatically.

“I am. If I weren't, do you think I’d be leading this life? I could be honest and say, hey, everyone, this is what I am. I could write all kinds of shit about physics _ and also _ bestselling novels about queer people fucking and falling in love. I could say: here I am, I am not ashamed.” He sighs. “Remind me, when did this game turn into a therapy session?”

“That, my dear, is entirely your fault. Drink again.”

“What?”

“You're not a coward. You’re braver than anyone I know. More than me, anyway, so I won't have you put yourself down.” Crowley tries to say something, but Fell goes on. “It's not your fault that life’s unfair. If you had to take precautions and make choices to get what you wanted. What you _ deserved _. You still did something about it.” The silence between them is so heavy that Fell doesn't dare move a muscle. He looks ahead, where the waves crash rhythmically on the shore. “Choose another answer. I don't accept this one”, he says eventually.

The silence that follows, filled only by the sound of the waves and a few, faraway seagulls, is broken by Crowley. “Okay, fine. Something I've never told anyone… Oh, I got it. You’re going to _ hate _this one. I actually like tea.”

Fell’s resolution not to look at Crowley vanishes. “You _ what _?”

“It’s not my favourite drink, but I don't hate it. I say I only drink black coffee to keep my reputation.”

“How does _ liking tea _ ruin your reputation?”

“Style”, Crowley answers laconically, as though they’d had this conversation many times. “I have a cabinet full of herbal tea at home. I'll show it to you, if you want.”

Fell laughs. “Oh, you’ll show me your collection of herbal tea? Really?”

“I didn’t mean it _ like that _, come on.” Is that a blush on his cheeks? “You know, this is actually more productive than therapy. The sight here is definitely better than my therapist's office, at least.”

“It _ is _ a beautiful place”, Fell agrees, without noticing that Crowley is very much not looking at the sea.

“All right, my turn again. Tell me… the most reckless thing you’ve done.”

_ Be here, with you. _ “Opening the bookshop”, he says instead. “Many assume it’s a family business, with the _ Co. _ on the sign and all, but I only put it there because I was barely twenty and wanted to look like I knew what I was doing.”

“So it was a leap of faith?”

“It was, in many ways. I gave myself a year and decided that, if I didn’t at least make ends meet, I would go back home and give my family the satisfaction of having always been right when they called me a failure.”

“What… There was no other way? Couldn’t you try something else?”

His tone is so soft, Fell can’t afford to look at him. “I didn’t think so, at the time. Lucky for me, it didn’t happen.”

“Lucky indeed.” Crowley takes another sip of whisky.

“You are completely ignoring the rules of the game.”

Crowley offers him the bottle with a grin. “Let’s break them together.”

Fell glares at him, but indulging him will make Crowley smile, so he does. He hesitates for the tiniest fraction of a second before putting his lips where Crowley’s have just been. He scolds himself: he is behaving like someone half his age. Worse, because he’s never behaved like this when he was twenty. “What is the most reckless thing _ you _have done, then? Surely it must be quite a story.”

Still leaning on his elbows, Crowley looks like he’s trying to solve a moral quandary or to understand quantum physics. Which he probably understands just fine, Fell amends in his head.

It’s odd, because time seems to freeze. For a moment, Fell swears that Crowley is swaying, or maybe he was about to sit up and then changed his mind. He shakes his head, swallowing whatever he was about to do or say. “Can’t tell you, angel.”

_ What did you just call me? _ A shiver runs through Fell as he realizes that he will not — doesn’t want to — correct him. “Why?”

“’Cause I haven’t done it yet.” The wind plays with Crowley’s hair as he watches the sea. “Though I might, someday, so it still counts.”

What can he possibly say to that? “All right.”

A light breeze rises, leaving a faint saline aftertaste in the back of his throat, pungent but welcome, mixed with the alcohol on his tongue. Fell inhales deeply, closing his eyes. The wind picks up and he sees Crowley shiver. “Let’s go inside.” He stands, grabs and folds the blanket and then reaches out for Crowley.

A blink of an eye later, Crowley grabs his hand and lets himself be helped to his feet.

They are not drunk, but they’re definitely well on their way on the scale from sober to wasted. As he stands, Crowley leans on Fell's arm to regain his balance, and Fell helps steady him grabbing Crowley's arm with his free hand. 

Fell tries to recall if he's ever been voluntarily this close to another human being, but his mind is shrouded in a pleasant cocoon of giddiness and warmth – yes, he feels Crowley's warmth even through their clothes, which means he can feel it too – and absolutely can't be bothered right now.

He may be in trouble.

Then Crowley straightens and smirks, looking at his confused expression. “You can’t handle alcohol for shit, angel.”

“Look who’s talking.” But there’s no bite in the comeback and, as they walk towards the cottage, he feels Crowley's grasp on his hand tightening for a moment.

He could slip away, if he wanted.

He doesn't want to.

When he squeezes his hand in response, he feels Crowley start a little.

Fell opens his mouth to say something, anything, to justify the way his heart is fluttering… _ Fluttering _, as if he were the heroine of a romance novel. What a notion. He feels something that must be panic. Not so strong to drown out the pure elation that has started blooming like a sunflower in his heart of hearts.

Something that resembles anticipation.

Fell has always taken pride in his ability to keep a level head in an emergency. He’s not sure exactly how _ this _qualifies as an emergency, but he is slowly being pervaded by the Olympian calm which usually forebodes a mild breakdown when the crisis is over.

The entryway is empty, though they can hear Madame Tracy’s voice as she sings to herself in some back room. Two keys wait for them at the desk.

The silence between them becomes even more charged, if such a thing is possible.

_ It’s perfectly natural _ , the rational part of Fell’s brain tells him. _ You are in the most liminal of spaces. The place where you have to make a choice. _

Fell closes his eyes, paralyzed._ Choose. _This is too much, he thinks.

And suddenly _ too much _ becomes _ not enough _.

Crowley tries to pull away his hand, maybe feeling — or misinterpreting — the quiet battle Fell is fighting inside himself. 

Fell doesn't let him go. He strokes the back of Crowley's hand with his thumb.

He doesn’t know where he finds the courage to do what he does next. Or maybe he does. _ Blessed whisky _. “This may be quite forward of me” – how is he even talking, right now? How is this miracle happening? –, “but I'd like to kiss you. Very much.”

Crowley looks like he's been hit on the head. Alcohol or not, he collects himself very quickly. “If you insist, angel”, he murmurs, before taking off his glasses, looking at a mesmerised Fell for a second – the lightning before thunder – and leaning in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious: [this](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.google.it/maps/@50.7335134,0.2414833,3a,75y,1.21h,82.54t/data%3D!3m8!1e1!3m6!1sAF1QipPoE0qsCuOzFwNGqibHNTOU1QwlqGAe4bIFxVUn!2e10!3e11!6shttps:%252F%252Flh5.googleusercontent.com%252Fp%252FAF1QipPoE0qsCuOzFwNGqibHNTOU1QwlqGAe4bIFxVUn%253Dw203-h100-k-no-pi0-ya349.11713-ro-0-fo100!7i8192!8i4096&sa=D&ust=1572080067243000&usg=AFQjCNEmIYuDjkyHbs02RamAOZouwM-jgg) is Beachy Head Lighthouse, and [these](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.google.it/maps/@50.7586974,0.1499341,3a,75y,7.87h,96.63t/data%3D!3m8!1e1!3m6!1sAF1QipNmGMcy7hKayye8ElVeH8M-AqBTcqEsH-qyiHov!2e10!3e11!6shttps:%252F%252Flh5.googleusercontent.com%252Fp%252FAF1QipNmGMcy7hKayye8ElVeH8M-AqBTcqEsH-qyiHov%253Dw203-h100-k-no-pi-0-ya91.84087-ro-0-fo100!7i7744!8i3872&sa=D&ust=1572080067270000&usg=AFQjCNGsLor2mloxKaq8eBfz9iMP_9NtFw) are the Seven Sisters from Cuckmere Haven. The poem they quote while eating breakfast on the beach is Eliot's _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_.  
Just a heads-up: my workload in November will (hopefully) be heavier and I’ll be busy writing and betaing for the Good Omens Holiday Swap and the Big Bang, respectively. I will finish this fic if it’s the last thing I do, I promise, so don’t despair if I take some time to update. Thank you for being kind and understanding!  
You can still yell at me and/or check if I’m still alive on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com).


	6. Something Rich and Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Shakespeare quote? In my chapter title?  
So, this is it. If, for any reason, you want to skip the smut, head straight to the sentence “Lying on the duvet with his eyes closed”. If you don’t want to skip it, see you on the other side.

**Inbox: 1 unread message**

**From**: moonchild.pepper@tadfieldpress.com

**To**: blzebub@mymail.com

**Subject**: Heads-up

Hey, B

just a heads-up: the mosquitoes are at it again. This time it’s more like a big, ugly bumblebee, though. The woman sent me an envelope with (you won’t believe it) passages from your client’s books (_ both kinds _), supposed to highlight the similarities and prove they’re written by the same person. Then she called me on my personal number to ask me if I agreed, saying that an editor’s perspective could corroborate her take.

I told her she had the wrong number and hung up. Keep your eyes peeled.

p

P.S. She said she had photos, too. Is it true?

P.P.S. How’s the new novel coming along? Next deadline is on the 15th. Just a reminder. I can’t edit a book I don’t have. :)

**You have (1) new voicemail**

_ Hi, uhm… Book Girl, here. This is so stupid, you know exactly who I am. Anyway, I went by the bookshop earlier and it’s still, uh… compromised. Whatever you did, it didn’t work. And I think what you did was send in the mob?... Whatever. Anyway, I think I have something on this Carmine woman, but if it is what I think it is, it needs to be double-checked. Please call me back. Over and out, I guess. _

**Chat with ** ** _g_ ** ** (18)**

hi b!!!

first off don’t get mad

lots of thing happening

not all of them bad!

we will definitely solve this

but

the cease and desist was contested

no need to worry B)

everythings under control!

:) :) :)

i set a meeting the day after tomorrow at 16 @ headquarters to discuss

oh

hope u feel better

tell me if theres anythign else

and when i can pick you up

or send someone

whatever you prefer

**From**: blzebub@mymail.com

**To**: moonchild.pepper@tadfieldpress.com

**Subject**: Re: Heads-up

got it

b

ps no.

pps youll be the first to know when its ready

**Call log: ** ** _book girl_ **

[calling _ book girl _]

[call ended (00:56:24)]

**Chat with ** ** _g_ **

_ typing _…

_ typing… _

_ typing... _

im coming home tonight

we have things to discuss 

im bringing someone at the meeting

youll like her

* * *

At the last moment, Fell remembers to close his eyes. He's under a spell: he doesn't know what to make of Crowley's thumb, which is now on his lips, of the careful affection it belies, of the warm breath that replaces it as Crowley closes the distance.

His mind, which is often his safe place — sometimes a labyrinth, often both —, his mind offers him no help on how to deal with this. His consciousness shrugs. _ You’re on your own. You asked for this, after all _.

He did.

When their lips finally meet, it’s all Fell can do to not throw his arms around Crowley’s neck, as if he lacked any self-control whatsoever. This kiss is… There are no words in the English language to describe it, so his mind — never to stay idle for too long — starts making its own. Feathertouch. Lightsoft. Most importantly, it’s a _ kiss _. He is kissing Anthony Crowley.

He inhales and pushes a little. Crowley reacts with a little gasp, which Fell feels on his lips. When he parts them slightly, Crowley does the same, with the most endearing moan. 

It’s baffling, this pull he feels towards him. Hard to understand. Fell brushes Crowley’s face with his fingertips, feeling a hint of stubble, skin made cold and a little sticky by the salty breeze, only now beginning to warm. Fell puts his hands on Crowley’s face in order to speed the process, and so he can tilt his head, there, at the right angle.

If he thought he was in uncharted waters before, now he is lost at sea. He’s in the doldrums, without knowing where North is from here. 

_Water, water_ _everywhere. _

No, he’s not lost. At least, he’s not alone.

_ We were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. _

Crowley’s lips taste like salt. His tongue, when it brushes gently against Fell’s, tastes like whisky and something smoky, with a sweet aftertaste. _ That’s a metaphor if you’ve ever wanted one. _ This is the last rational thought Fell has for a while, and not a particularly witty one, at that. 

He barely registers that Crowley’s hands are on the back of his neck, in his hair — where did he put his sunglasses? —, doing things to his scalp that make him feel all tingly. His own hands have gone down on Crowley’s shoulders, then his chest, and have settled on his hips, under the hem of the grey cardigan, crumpling the fabric of Crowley’s shirt. He’d never thought he’d dare touch him there, let alone _ like that _, but his hands seem to have a mind of their own.

The word _ unbearable _ surfaces again to Fell’s consciousness, but this time he doesn’t walk away from it. He pulls backward just a fraction of an inch and murmurs: “Your room, Crowley. Now”.

Crowley inhales and his hands twitch in Fell’s hair. “Fuck.” His eyes dart to the keys on the desk. “Which one’s mine?”

“I don’t know. Pick one.”

With brisk efficiency, Crowley grabs a key with one hand and Fell’s hand with the other. Then he all but drags Fell — who is entirely cooperative, if a bit shell-shocked — to the room in questions and opens the door. 

As soon as they step inside, Crowley closes the door, takes Fell by his lapels and pushes him against it. A moment later, his lips are on Fell's again. Even as he puts up no resistance whatsoever, Fell can’t help but gasp in surprise.

Crowley stops and pulls back. “Is this too much? Tell me if I…”

But he only manages so far until Fell takes his face in his hands again and presses their lips together. “Don’t stop”, he says, a moment later.

He hasn’t even had a look at the room. It could be on fire, right now, or underwater, and it wouldn’t matter. Crowley is _ kissing _ him, they are kissing, and they are still not close enough.

He tries to think of a solution, when he realises that Crowley is not pressing on him on purpose, giving him space. That’s lovely and considerate, but it won’t do.

Before he can think too much about it — and everyone knows the risk is always there —, Fell allows himself to do what he wants, which in this specific circumstance happens to be grabbing the front of Crowley’s cardigan (well, his cardigan. His cardigan, worn by Crowley, something which is doing absolutely nothing to make him think rationally about this whole situation) and pushing _ him _ against the door, switching their places.

In the twilight dimness of the room, he sees Crowley’s eyes go wide. When Fell kisses him again (he can’t look at his face — that _beautiful_, dear face —, not now, he can’t be seen like this, undone, wanting, demanding), pushing him against the door, throwing all consideration to personal space and boundaries out the window, he goes pliant in his arms like a ragdoll cat.

Breaking the kiss, he grabs a handful of hair (how long has he been wanting to do it? Watched, as the wind toyed with it, as the sun made it burn like wildfire?) and gently pushes Crowley’s head down towards his own neck.

The rows of kisses Crowley plants under his ear and above his collarbone with greedy lips, his breath hot on the sensitive skin, his every inhale and exhale: it all reverberates inside Fell, and the noises he makes seem to have a similar effect, judging from the way Crowley’s hands can’t seem to decide where to stop, stroking his back, pulling at his hair to reach better, grabbing, pushing them closer.

When Crowley’s lips go down towards Fell’s collarbone and his hands start to undo the bowtie, Fell takes a step back and finishes the job, then he removes his coat. Crowley does the same with the cardigan, and, though Fell liked to see him wearing something of his in a way he’s not quite ready to examine, right now, there’s something to be said for seeing a man he’s very attracted to starting to get rid of his clothes in front of him.

Neither of them care where the coat and the cardigan end up.

Crowley smiles when he sees that Fell’s hands are trembling. 

“I’m not nervous”, Fell deadpans with a whisper, and Crowley gives a shaking laugh.

He whispers too. “If it weren't for the door, I'd be on the floor.” His hands are on Fell’s collar the moment he comes closer again. He tugs, then lets his fingers hover over the first button. _ Is this all right? _ he doesn’t say. 

He doesn’t have to, because Fell understands him perfectly and puts his fingers over Crowley’s, not to stop them but to give them permission.

Crowley’s mouth is on his neck again, and there are teeth this time, and a gentle sucking too. Fell cards his hand through the hair at the back of Crowley’s head — so long, so impossibly soft —, pulling him closer.

He feels dizzy, partly the alcohol’s fault, but mostly because their bodies are now flush against each other, with much less clothing to separate them, and Crowley’s tongue is doing other unspeakable things to his neck. They are so close that he's not sure whose hands are grabbing whose arms, he can't tell which one of them shivers when the other moans.

He only knows that he wants, he wants, he wants.

Something has shifted and it's terrifying and amazing.

He can feel Crowley's arousal mirroring his, especially when Crowley puts a hand on the small of his back, pressing them closer. Fell knows he's noticed, too. It's undeniable, an honest statement, a truth universally acknowledged. For some unfathomable reason — for which he is nonetheless very thankful —, he’s not embarrassed, at least for now. 

(How will he live, when _ now _ will have passed? When _ this _ won't be happening anymore? Why can't he think in future tense anymore?)

He looks Crowley in the eye, grabs his right hand — the left is currently trying to undo another button of his shirt —, and he puts it on the front of his trousers.

Everything becomes very still. Fell can’t look at Crowley, can’t risk it. He burrows his face in the crook of his neck, grabbing a handful of his shirt with his other hand. Because basically climbing onto him is somehow safer than looking at his face.

Ages pass. Empires rise and fall, civilizations reach their peak and wage war against each other. Then Crowley slides his hand upwards, and Fell can't help but grind against it. 

The hiss that escapes Crowley's lips when this happens sets something on fire inside Fell. Suddenly this is not enough, nothing will ever be. He forgets his fears, his doubts, his name. He presses a wet kiss against Crowley's neck as he tries not to forget how to breathe.

Crowley’s hand is warm and knows what to do. After a few seconds, he pulls at Fell’s belt with a silent question.

Fell nods against his neck. Crowley correctly interprets his lack of hesitation and he undoes the buckle and the buttons of Fell’s trousers, inevitably brushing against Fell’ erection and sending sparks of lightning through his whole body.

Then his hand is fully on him again, their flesh separated only by a thin, damp cotton layer. The angle is awkward, but Crowley makes the best of it (it’s not his first rodeo, of course. It’s not Fell’s, either, to be fair, but some things are better forgotten. Besides, it was such a long time ago, and not like this, never like this). His other hand strokes his hair, then slides down until it's cupping his arse, grabbing greedily, pushing him forward even more.

With his eyes closed, Fell grasps at Crowley’s shirt, vaguely regretting the lapse of judgement that made him forget to take it off him. He tries to find purchase, but nothing’s solid enough when he’s freefalling like this, when the only one he can ask for help is the reason why he’s falling in the first place.

His fumbling is apparently exciting, because Crowley groans in his ear and doubles his efforts.

“Touch me, please”, Fell hears himself say.

A sudden stillness, then a huff. “Oh, _ fuck _. Okay, angel. Whatever you want.” 

Fell helps him taking his own underwear out of the way. He’s never felt more like one of Madame Ashtoreth’s debauched protagonists. Having thrysts in faraway places, in strange circumstances, stealing moments against walls and doors. It’s not something he had foreseen while he was reading the books, although he must have at least _ hoped _it, in some dark corners of his subconscious. Otherwise he wouldn't be here now, with his trousers half down and Crowley’s hand wrapped around his cock. Those fingers… 

He muffles a moan against Crowley’s shoulder, dampening the fabric of his shirt with his open mouth, his heart on the verge of bursting or breaking or suffer some other kind of irreparable damage. 

Crowley’s movements become languorous and deliberately slow. He is half slumped against the door, and the mental image Fell has of him – along with the thing he's currently doing with his thumb – almost sends him over the edge.

“Please, don’t hold back on my account”, he croaks out.

A breathy laugh tickles his ear. “Is that your way of telling me you want to come?”

Fell inhales deeply, his brain completely incapable of forming sentences. “Mmm.” He nods for good measure.

“Fine.” The gentleness in Crowley’s tone is offset by the firmness of his grip.

Fell puts both his arms around his neck, lest his knees give out, or he floats away. One or the other.

_ Is it always supposed to be like this? _he thinks, his thoughts touching lightly on those things best left forgotten, and then his solitary, sporadic experiments, considering the mild self loathing and regret that always followed. What has changed?

The answer is, of course, the man he has put all of his trust in, which is currently murmuring endearments and encouragements as tiny gasps leave Fell's mouth against his will. Towards the end, he can't help but thrust in Crowley’s hand. He will be mortified about it later. Now this is all there is.

When he comes, shaking and breathless, Crowley puts a hand on his neck and kisses his temple. “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.” 

Fell arms are still around Crowley’s neck when he comes, and he's not sure when he'll be able to let go. Lucky for him, Crowley doesn't seem to mind, as he keeps stroking him for a few seconds with the utmost gentleness. Then he takes his hand away, wiping it on his shirt as if it were nothing, before holding Fell in his arms.

By now he must have noticed Fell’s silent tears, because they are dampening his shirt. He doesn’t remark on them, but his fingers keeps brushing Fell’s hair like he would do with a skittish animal. “It’s all right, it’s all right. Booksellers…” he murmurs. “Always so emotional.”

The careful silence Fell has somehow managed to keep until now is shattered by a surprised laugh. He sniffs, his cover utterly blown.

Crowley presses another kiss on his temple. “Angel, can you go lie down on the bed? I'll be with you in a second.”

Fell nods and tentatively lets him go.

“Excellent. Later.”

Crowley's sudden departure leaves him cold and dizzy, deprived of the pillar that has held him up until now. He puts himself to rights with shaking hands and feels his way to the bed in a daze. It's not entirely unpleasant, but he knows there will be a lot to unpack, later, and the thought makes him shudder.

Lying on the duvet with his eyes closed, he hears Crowley rummaging in what he supposes is the bathroom and then going about the room, without turning the light on. It’s only when he hears a thud and then a muffled cry that Fell opens his eyes. “What are you doing?” He whispers the words, as if he was in a sacred place.

Crowley hesitates. “Tidying up?”

Without his glasses and in the near darkness, he must be basically blind. Closing his eyes again, Fell sighs. “Come here.” _ You idiot. _

Somehow Crowley reaches the bed and sits on it. 

Fell pats the duvet and, when Crowley lies down next to him, rolls over until their bodies come into contact.

The bed would barely be large enough to accommodate them both, if they weren’t pressed against each other, only a few inches between their faces. It’s breathtaking and soothing at the same time.

In this light, he can barely make out the lines of Crowley’s face. He raises a hand and gently strokes his cheekbone, his jaw, his bare shoulder… “What happened to your shirt?” he asks, and then it dawns on him. “Oh.”

Crowley chuckles. “Yeah, you happened.”

As he reminisces, Fell is reminded of something else. “Crowley, you didn't… I mean, I should…”

“Shh. You _ shouldn't _ do anything. We have all the time in the world.” Crowley brushes the hair away from Fell's forehead and he closes his eyes again, feeling like he could start purring any second now. When Crowley speaks again, his voice is thicker than usual. “You really are… something, angel.”

“You keep calling me that.”

“It’s your name. And it suits you. Do I have to stop?”

“I didn't say that.” Fell sighs again, blushing. “I should probably get up and… sort myself out, too.”

“We have time”, Crowley repeats, carding his fingers through Fell’s hair. His strokes are light and a bit hesitant, as though he’s half expecting Fell to ask him to stop. _ He can wait forever, then. _

“How long?” Crowley asks, out of nowhere.

Fell feels his cheeks burn. “What do you mean?”

“When you said you’ve been wanting to kiss me. How long have you been wanting to do that?”

Surprised, Fell opens his eyes. “Crowley, are you gloating?”

Crowley’s laugh is soft, but filled with glee and mischief. “No”, he lies. “But you’re not answering. That long, uh?”

As a rule, Fell doesn’t like being teased. He doesn’t like pranks and surprises, or anything that makes him feel gullible, the butt of a joke. So he has no clue as to why Crowley teasing him feels so delightful. And why it makes him want to do the same. “Well, my proposition was well received, as I recall it. How about you?”

“How long have _ I _ been wanting to kiss _ you _?” Crowley doesn't miss a beat. "Since before we met.”

Fell’s heart does something that can be described only as a somersault. “If you don’t want to take this seriously…”

Crowley puts a finger on Fell's lips and the objection dies instantly. “I liked you since Bee made me read your first letter. I decided that, if you were half as charming as your penmanship, I would have proposed on the spot.”

“Crowley, please don’t make fun of me.” Why is his voice breaking, the traitor?

Crowley takes Fell’s hands and scoots closer, until their breaths mingle, until Fell can’t look at him without his eyes crossing. “You wrote a letter. To me. You could have called, or sent an email – yes, I know _ now _, but back then I didn’t – and… no, let me finish. You took the time to do something nice, something you didn’t have to, for me, just because you cared. And you didn’t even know me, then. I could have been a horrible person.”

“You are.” Fell pushes him on the chest, but he’s fighting back tears again. “You were my favourite writer.”

Crowley catches his hand again. “How is this different than me liking you for something you've written, then? And then. Then you admitted you were wrong. And _ then _ you accepted my apology in a heartbeat and agreed to come with me on this absurd trip.”

“Hush.”

“No, _ you _hush. You’re the best person I’ve ever met, and if you…”

Crossing the tiny gap between them, Fell kisses him. Just to shut him up. That, and because he couldn't resist the siren’s call of Crowley’s lips any longer.

Crowley’s surprise lasts maybe for less than a second, immediately replaced by a sort of tender determination. He lets go of Fell’s hands to hold his face, and a moan escapes his throat when Fell brushes the length of his naked forearm, feeling goosebumps under his fingertips.

“Angel”, Crowley mutters against his lips.

“Mmm?”

“You know you can do whatever you want to me, right?”

Fell inhales. It’s trying its best, his poor heart, but these are extenuating circumstances. It was built for enjoying quiet Sunday mornings, a cup of Lapsang Souchong when he's feeling fancy, leisurely strolls, old books, old music. This? This is like putting running shoes on for the first time and be expected to finish a marathon. “You can’t just say something like that and…”

A kiss on the corner of his mouth. “And what?” Another kiss on his cheekbone. Crowley props himself up and hovers over Fell, his untied auburn hair framing his face.

Fell sends another grateful thought to the half-light, but his frantic heartbeat is not as easy to conceal as his blush. “And expect me not to think about it.”

Light as a feather, Crowley’s hand trails down his head, his neck, his chest. “You should stop thinking.”

Someone knocks at the door.

In the blink of an eye, the mood is shattered. A wave of panic rushes through Fell, whose first reaction is to deny anything is happening, at all, what an idea, honestly. He feels like he’s been caught cheating during a test.

He is about to answer, but Crowley raises his eyebrows and shushes him. He gets up himself and saunters to the door and barely opens it. Between the blood rumbling in his ears and the fact that the conversation’s whispered, Fell hears the voice of Madame Tracy and Crowley’s answer, but he doesn’t make the words out.

A few seconds later — they feel more like hours —, Crowley closes the door. “So, apparently I forgot my glasses on the reception desk, and this is _ your _ room, so your suitcase should be here, somewhere. Tracy also wanted to know if we have plans for dinner, since she’s already cooking and would be eating alone, since Mr Shadwell — the human, I think, not the cat — won’t be there tonight anyway and _ fuck _, you’re gorgeous.”

It takes a moment for Fell to process the practical information Crowley is relaying and the apparent non sequitur. Propped on his elbows, Fell takes a quick look at himself: open vest, rumpled shirt and – his face becomes scarlet – wrinkled trousers with only a button done out of three. He has some difficulty reconciling _ this _ with the word “gorgeous”.

On the other hand, knowing Crowley had only his trousers and a tank top on was one thing, but seeing him in such a state is quite another. 

Fell is saved from making an inane statement — such as, for example, _ Oh, good Lord _ or _ Why are you on a first name basis with the manager? _ — by the cause of his agitation himself, who all but jumps on the bed and drapes himself on him, making Fell's head fall down on the cushion again and pressing a kiss on his lips. 

It’s more playful than passionate and it makes Fell think: this is it. This is the happiest I have ever been.

They talk about it and they decide to take up Madame Tracy's invitation. With some regret, Fell has to let Crowley go to his room to put something on before dinner.

As Fell himself is getting dressed, he finally has enough time and clarity to think about the bookshop. He just can’t picture a cluster of journalists and reporters pushing on his front door. He should call Anathema, later, and ask her to have a look, see if everything is all right. 

This whole situation has a very promising anxiety-inducing potential. But for some reason, it never grows into it. 

Well, the reason isn’t very hard to guess.

Yes, Fell is worried, and he would prefer if things didn’t escalate, but the strange sort of high-voltage calm he felt since leaving London with Crowley hasn’t evaporated. If anything, it’s grown stronger.

He and Crowley come out of their respective rooms, which are facing each other, at the same time. Crowley has his hair tied, the sunglasses on and he’s wearing black jeans, but not the black shirt Fell expected. No, he has a t-shirt on. An old t-shirt, by the look of it. Something you would put on for sleeping or going on a jog. Also black, of course, but with a band logo on the front (Fell doesn’t recognize it. Bebop, probably).

Crowley notices him staring and shrugs. If Fell didn’t know better, he’d say Crowley is a little self-conscious. “It was the last clean thing I got. Let’s go find the kitchen, angel, shall we?”

Madame Tracy welcomes them as if they’re family coming home for Christmas. The kitchen is small but cozy and looks lived-in and loved. It's warm and the smell would bring tears to the eyes of a real angel. Their hostess is still cooking and they help set the table. Once dinner’s ready, they sit and help themselves from the pot of stew their hostess put in the middle. 

“I have to say, Madame Tracy, hospitality is your calling”, Fell says.

“Oh, hush, my dear. I do my best. I’ve been here how long, now? Must be two years. Yes, me and Mr Shadwell, we left London not too long ago, all things considered. Best decision we could make.” Then Madame Tracy smiles. “I heavily recommend it to you, too.”

Spoon in midair, petrified, Fell hears Crowley choking on the stew. He’s the first to recover, and awkwardly pats Crowley on the back. “We are…” _ Not together in that sense? _ It hardly seems appropriate to say. “This is…” _ Not what you think it is? _Madame Tracy’s assessment of the situation is probably accurate. “We are both very much committed to London at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” Madame Tracy is still smiling, looking for all the world like someone who understands perfectly. “Maybe one day, then?”

Fell hopes nobody notices he’s sweating. “Never say never.”

“And what do you do in London, Mr Wandsworth?”

(When it was time to come up with a false name, Fell’s mind went straight to his favourite heroine, Eden Wandsworth, from _ Falling Upwards _. He has a soft spot for her because he sees a lot of Crowley in her, his distaste for biographical literary critique be damned.)

“I am a small business owner.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Fell remembers they are supposed to be in disguise. He looks at Crowley, trying not to panic.

But Crowley is looking at him with raised eyebrows, waiting himself to know what Mr Wandsworth does for a living. 

“I sell…” He catches sight of the logo on Crowley’s t-shirt. “I sell records. Very old ones. I have an antiquarian record store.” Does such a thing exist? He casts another helpless glance at Crowley, who looks amused and proud. 

“Yes, he does. His taste in music stops at the XIX century, in fact.”

Fell narrows his eyes, but doesn't catch the bait. “Do you like opera, Madame Tracy?”

“Oh, I listen to the odd aria, now and then. I find opera terribly romantic.”

Ignoring the soup, Crowley props his chin on his hands. “Oh, really? What’s your taste in literature, then?”

As Fell grunts, Madame Tracy’s eyes glint conspiratorially. “Well, if you must know, I have a very… thorough fiction collection.”

“Oh, really? Favourite author?”

Unable to stop himself, Fell kicks Crowley’s shin under the table. “Don’t mind him. He’s just nosy.” _ And insane _.

While Crowley looks very much amused, Madame Tracy has obviously sniffed something, but has too much class to probe any further. “What about you, Mr Morgenstern? What do you do?”

“I’m a teacher”, says Crowley, lying back on his chair. “I teach music. That’s how we met, by the way: I came by his shop to look for research material, and one thing led to another…”

_ Just what led to what? _“Yes, he’s one of my oldest clients”, Fell confirms, out of breath.

“Oh, you two are _ adorable _!” says Madame Tracy, smiling, then gets up. “Does anyone want some pudding? I’m going to bring the pudding.”

She leaves the table and Crowley takes Fell’s hand. “Did you hear? We’re _ adorable _.”

“I did”, says Fell, primly, blushing hard.

Crowley’s smile loses a little mischief. “Well, one of us sure is.” 

His fingers are cold and Fell wants to hold his hand until they’re warm again. But their hostess is coming back and he lets go. Their eyes take a little longer to separate.

They are invited to a nightcap in front of the fire, after dinner, but they politely decline. Fell is the first out the kitchen door and, when he turns to see why Crowley isn’t following him, he sees him leaning as Madame Tracy whispers something in his ear.

When Crowley catches up with him, Fell has to make a double take to make sure he isn’t hallucinating. No, Crowley’s cheeks are indeed of a fetching crimson hue. “What did she tell you?” Fell asks, astonished.

Crowley tries to look cool and unaffected, but avoids eye contact. “She wanted me to know that she’ll be charging us only half of the other room’s fee if we’ll be using only the one. She was… colourful.”

Somehow, Fell keeps from laughing. “Some new material for your next book?”

“Oh, _ no. _” Crowley shakes his head. “It’s too much even for me.”

“Anyway, she is very good at reading people. Or maybe we’re very poor actors. Speaking of it, what were you thinking, back there?”

“Oh, come on, tell me it wasn’t fun.”

“It was very imprudent.”

“And fun.”

Fell looks around to make sure they’re alone, then he steps forward and presses a light kiss on his lips. “Dr Crowley, do you want to spend the night in my room?”

“Yes.” Not even the smallest hesitation. 

“Even if all we did was talking and sleeping?”

Crowley turns his head and presses a kiss on Fell’s palm. “Anything you want, angel.”

They don’t talk very much, eventually. And they don’t go to sleep, either, not right away. Kissing Crowley is something Fell’s not sure will ever get old. When they touch, Crowley’s usual restlessness seems to abate, soothed. Fell feels more centered, too. The part of his brain that’s always questioning what he’s doing — the part that made him seek solitude and the comfort of a fixed routine, the part that’s been whining since the day Crowley set foot in the bookshop, demanding to be heard, asking him what the hell does Fell think he’s doing — is confined to a corner of his mind, and stays there.

It turns out that Crowley's black t-shirt is very soft, and Fell can’t resist running his hands on his back, his waist, his chest. Doing so makes a lovely variety of noises come out of Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley’s mouth — since Fell’s thinking about it — tastes like pudding and coming out of a storm into a warm house. His body is also heavier than Fell thought, and he’s in a privileged position to make this statement, since it is currently sprawled on top of his own. Crowley's sunglasses are gone, forgotten on the bedside table along with his mobile – which was “put on silent”, Crowley's words.

Yes, lying on the bed to “talk” seemed like a good idea at the time, but they were quickly sidetracked.

“Quick question”, Crowley asks, his lips hovering over Fell’s. “Did you really mean it?”

Fell can't resist a quick peck on his lips before answering: “You will have to be more specific than that”.

“Do you really want me here?”

Fell's heart twitches._ What have they done to you? What have they told you? _ “My dear.” He notices how Crowley averts his eyes when he says that, and he gently takes his face in his hands. “Unless I explicitly say otherwise, you can assume I always enjoy your presence.”

Crowley looks at him with focused intensity. “Always.” It's not a question. It's a statement. A challenge.

His tone warns Fell that he has to tread carefully. “Always. I know what you are thinking, dear. I don't know you enough. I will change my mind.”

“I can make you”, Crowley mumbles. “There are things I will do that you won’t like…”

“Then we'll talk about it and sort it out. I'm talking about who you _ are _ , darling. Even if _ this _ ” – he doesn't have to specify what _ this _ is – “ends, I will always know, at heart, you are a good person.”

Before Fell can decipher the emotion on his face, Crowley hides it in the crook of Fell’s neck. “You can't just say things like that.”

“Well, I believe them.” _I don't give away my heart easily_, Fell would say, if he were just a little bit braver, bolder. _But, when I do, I don't take it back easily, either._

“You”, Crowley says, his words muffled and warm against Fell's neck. And that's enough.

It feels nice, saying these things out loud, laying the first stone. Fell strokes his hair, puts a strand behind his ear. “My dear?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re lovely.”

“Mmm.”

Fell lowers his voice. “You’re also quite heavy.”

Mumbling something more displeased than apologetic, Crowley moves a little and then lets gravity do the rest of the job. He plunks down on the duvet, his head resting on Fell’s arm, eyes closed.

A thought crosses Fell’s mind: he meant to call Anathema. He should do it now, before it gets too late. But then Crowley curls up even more against him, murmuring something that contains the word “soft”.

_ I guess I can do that tomorrow. _ Fell makes himself as comfortable as he can without disturbing the human-shaped cat beside him. Too bad he hasn't thought of putting a book on the bedside table, earlier, though he doesn't regret the source of his distraction. When he strokes his hair, Crowley makes a noise from his throat. “Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you.”

“No bother.”

“No?”

“Mmm-mmm. Working. Planning. Plotting.”

_ Plotting? _ Fell lights up. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Nnnh. Spoilers.”

Well, he had to try. He keeps stroking his favourite writer's hair like it's a thing he does, nothing to write home about. He could get used to this. His idle mind starts to wonder. Perhaps, with a few adjustments, provided they are on the same page… their routines could maybe fit, even slightly. Or, Fell's routine and whatever it is Crowley does with his time. Maybe they could have more nights like this, or along the lines. 

Before Fell knows it, he's thinking in future tense again.

* * *

**Call log**

[5 missed calls from _ Bee _]

**You have (1) new voicemail**

_ I swear to everything, Crowley, if you don’t pick up this phone before… Listen, I don’t strictly need to tell you, and you don’t seem to care anyway, but we’re having a meeting with the lawyers, the day after tomorrow, at 4 pm. You are free not to show up, it’ll just mean we’ll reach a conclusion faster. I can’t wait to retire. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sea-themed poem I looted this time is _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_.  
[TheGan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGan/pseuds/TheGan) betaed this chapter while having a migraine, confirmed to be the best person ever.  
I can usually be found on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com) posting one million pictures of an angel and a demon making out (credit to @seekwill for this poignant description).


	7. A Myriad Wrecks in Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter’s title comes from _Pebbles_, a Herman Melville’s poem that the lovely @UlsPi recommended to me (check out the fic they wrote inspired by this one — a thing I still cannot believe I get to write! There’s a link at the bottom of the page).
> 
> There’s some smut in here, but otherwise this chapter is very much about feeeeliiiings, so be warned for both.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, @TheGan. Oh, you. You know.

Fell is not a man who yells or gets angry. His fight or flight response is stuck in one setting. When he’s scared or upset, he just walks away. The back room of his bookshop is his happy place. A room crammed with books, whose occasional empty spaces only bear the promise to hold more books in the future. The warmth of a fireplace. A hot beverage. A comfy chair. Solitude.

Now, far away from his sanctuary, he’s trying to picture it in his mind, to imagine what makes him feel happy and safe, but his traitorous brain supplies other things. The impossibly vast expanse of the sea. Walks on the beach. A badly lit dressing room. Another room, especially its door. Lying on a bed with a sleepy Crowley, hot breath on the skin of his neck. Crowley's lips. Crowley.

Crowley, who, according to websites whose authority Fell is uncertain about, has the habit of having “flings” with “celebrities”. Crowley, whose alter ego has a miles-long, ever-expanding (and extremely detailed, for someone who doesn’t technically even exist) “Wikipedia” page about her, talking about fame and success and movie deals.

His fingers hover over the mouse button as he’s trying to decipher what, exactly, he’s feeling, deep down, under the wave of irrational hurt and fear that has overwhelmed him.

Why did he do this? Why, after using the b&b landline to call Anathema, did he succumb to the temptation of typing Crowley’s name on the blasted device Madame Tracy made available to him, “just in case you need it, dearie”?

It's not jealousy.

It's the knowledge of his deep inadequacy.

And yet.

Had he known what the Internet writes about Crowley and Madame Ashtoreth, Fell’s approach would have been different. He wouldn’t have been so trusting, naive, even (he would have guarded his heart more). He would have seen Crowley in a different light, and perhaps his opinion would have changed, in the end, but setting aside his prejudice would have been hard work.

It is hard to reconcile the picture these articles paint with the clever, gentle, soulful, funny man who opens the door for him, who listens to him when he talks, who remembers what food he likes, who called him “love” as Fell came in his hand.

But the man is also very good at keeping secrets. Crowley has high stakes. Fell mustn’t forget that.

_And yet…_

Fell woke up at 6, this morning, to find Crowley curled up against his side, snoring lightly. He looked so young (although he’s only four years younger than Fell, he looked it up) and innocent and impossibly beautiful. His hair, spread out on the pillow, was dark in the faint morning light that filtered through the curtains. 

Fell couldn’t go back to sleep.

He breaks his train of thought and stands up, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt and smoothing the wrinkles out of his trousers. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation he’s about to have, and goes to their room.

He knocks on the door, gently, in case Crowley is still asleep as he left him. He doesn’t get an answer, but, when he opens the door, he finds the curtains drawn and Crowley sitting on the bed, still wearing the crumpled rock band t-shirt he’s slept in. 

When Fell enters, he looks up from his phone with a haunted expression. 

And, just like that, Fell knows their time here is over.

Persuading Madame Tracy that they need to be in London as soon as possible proves exactly as difficult as one may have expected, and they end up waiting for her to make a hastily-put-together but delicious breakfast. Crowley barely touches it, but he knocks back his black coffee as if it were the antidote to a deadly poison. Fell debates whether or not telling him to calm down, not wanting to sound patronizing; then he remembers he can just hold his hand, so he does.

Crowley lets his delicate fingers be held, but he doesn’t squeeze back.

Fell himself finds it difficult to eat. He’s ruminating on Crowley’s words, and also Anathema’s.

_(“You can’t come back to the bookshop yet.”_

_“Not even at night? I thought I could maybe slip in through the back door.”_

_“And then what? As soon as they realise you’re inside, they’ll never let you out again. I’m sorry.” She laughed self-consciously. “You could sleep on my couch, if I had one.” (Anathema’s flat is almost as big as a matchstick box.)_

_Fell echoed her sad laugh. “Don’t worry, dear. This is only temporary.”)_

Fell looks at their hands as they sit in silence in Madame Tracy’s kitchen, and thinks about impermanence.

A little while later they’re in their room, and Crowley is crouched in front of his messy suitcase, scratching his head. “Bollocks.”

“What is it?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fell sees Crowley get up and stretch out the front of his t-shirt, examining it. “I guess it’s still good for another day.”

Fell, who’s meticulously wrapping up his extra pair of shoes before putting them in his suitcase, stops and turns very slowly. “You’re not going to go around wearing the t-shirt you’ve slept in, are you?”

The man shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Fell closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. If this morning doesn’t kill him… “You have two other suitcases.”

“Yes, and they’re full of dresses.”

Oh, right. “Take one of mine. I have a spare. It’s going to be a size or two bigger, but the opposite would be worse.”

Crowley rakes his fingers through his hair, considering. He exhales and lowers his arms, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt and taking it off without so much as a warning.

It’s an overcast morning, but the light is bright and vivid, enough to let Fell appreciate in full his lean musculature, the stark contrast between his skin and the black undershirt. Then Crowley comes closer, right in his personal space, until Fell’s senses cannot parse anything but him. He can’t help but notice a string of little things — Crowley is taller than him, but not by much; the hair on his chest is also red, but darker than his hair; he is breathing, he is solid, he is real, he is here.

Crowley raises an eyebrow, amused. “My face is up here, angel”

“Oh, right.” Fell turns away and rummages through his suitcase, wreaking havoc into the perfect composition he had made of his belongings — and not finding anywhere in him the strength or the will to care. He finds the shirt and opens the few buttons he had fastened to keep it nice and folded. “Here”, he says, and he holds it out for Crowley to slip in it.

Crowley hesitates. Then he slips one arm and then the other into the shirt. He leaves the first two buttons unfastened and, when he’s done with the rest of them, he rolls up the cufflinks once, twice. “How do I look?”

The shirt is light blue, with a herringbone pattern, and makes Crowley’s hair look like liquid fire. “It’s a bit large, as I thought”, whispers Fell, who’s not sure he’ll be able to talk properly again. “But the colour suits you.” _I hope I suit you, too_, is what he means, and the fact that he’s able to admit it to himself feels like a revolution, like another barricade has fallen.

_You don’t know him_, says a voice in his mind.

_I do_, he replies. _In the ways that count, I do. At least I’m starting to._

He adjusts Crowley’s collar, smoothing the fabric on the shoulders, and leaves his hands there as he looks in Crowley’s sunglasses. Yes, Crowley is taller than him, but Fell doesn’t even have to stand on his tiptoes very much in order to press a kiss on his lips.

For a moment, Crowley leans into the kiss, steadying himself by putting his hands on Fell’s waist. 

Three heartbeats: that’s how long it lasts. One slow breath before Crowley pulls away. “We have to go”, he says.

The windscreen wipers go lazily back and forth in the light October rain as they make their way back to London, in the sluggish Monday morning traffic. Fell’s tartan umbrella is dripping at his feet.

Crowley hasn’t said a word since they left. Fell has to recalibrate his previous assessment about how Crowley reacts when he’s nervous. He’s not the tightly-wound ball of anxiety he was in Eastbourne, incapable of being still for more than a few seconds. Now he reminds him more of an ice statue, bound to crack and break at the slightest pressure.

Fell wishes he knew what to do to make it better. “Do you want to talk about it?” It’s a feeble attempt, but he doesn’t know any other way to tackle the situation.

Crowley flexes his fingers. He has one hand on the wheel, while the other is gripping the gear stick, even though they are moving at a crawl and he’s not going to shift gears any time soon. He doesn’t dismiss the question right away, though. “I don’t know.”

Well, that doesn’t help.

“I’m sorry.” Crowley’s voice is low and maybe angry. It’s hard to tell. “For making you leave so abruptly this morning, I mean. I don’t like meetings, especially with lawyers. Especially _my_ lawyer. He’s a dick.”

Maybe, Fell muses, there are things Crowley doesn’t like — waiting for a meeting with the readers to start, for example —, and things he _really_ doesn’t like. That could explain his attitude this morning. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Realistically? That they tell me I can’t do this anymore.”

Fell can almost hear Crowley’s teeth grinding. “Can they?”

“I’m sure they could, if they wanted to. They have kept me from fucking things up lots of times, but this means they can pull the leash whenever they want. Hey, I should have asked: how’s the bookshop situation?”

Fell sighs, thinking back to his conversation with Anathema. “Still bad, I’m afraid.”

“Stay at my place”, Crowley replies without the smallest hesitation. “I mean, you can, if you like.”

Fell looks out the window, but it’s only rain on concrete and a bleak sky. He turns towards Crowley. “I don’t think Bee would like that. Or your lawyers.”

“Fuck them to Hell and back. I’m not letting them dictate terms on _this_.” Crowley looks at him with… hope? “Stay at mine, today, please?”

It might not be a good idea. The voice of reason is screaming that he shouldn’t. There are many other options for him… 

On the other hand, he’s never been good at talking himself out of taking a second slice of cake or reading another chapter. This is the same, the only difference is scale. “All right.”

A tense smile appears on Crowley’s lips as he turns towards the road again. “Are you going to postpone the book club meeting?”

Fell stares. Did Crowley slip up or did he do that on purpose? Either way, it looks like they’re doing this here, now. He doesn’t feel prepared, but he has a feeling he never will be. “Did Anathema tell you about the book club, too?”

Crowley doesn’t act surprised. Not a slip-up, then. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I should have done it sooner. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad.” _Stop saying you’re sorry. Please._ “I suspected she came to you. Was it after you stormed in the shop? I hope she wasn’t too… forceful.”

“She’s a force of nature. Even Bee was impressed, when they stopped being furious. She’s a good friend. You’re lucky.”

Fell feels a wave of gratitude for Anathema. “She shouldn’t have interfered”, he says nonetheless. And then, softly: “I’m glad she did”.

Crowley’s hands grip the wheel more forcefully. “She said… Oh, nevermind.” He fidgets, makes a grimace. 

Fell interlaces his fingers and waits. He counts the seconds. Four, five… 

“What I mean is, you’re not at all… Ugh, listen. I may have gotten the wrong idea about you.”

Fell waits for him to go on, but the silence stretches. “How is that?” he asks, neutral but gentle. (He is used to people getting ideas about him. That is why he generally prefers to be alone.)

“I pegged you as a… Please, don’t take it the wrong way. I thought you were… this gentle hermit, thriving in your book-filled solitude. A bit standoffish, old-fashioned. Fussy, prim. Supremely cultured, but only in your chosen subjects.”

The vintage heating system being what it is, it’s not very warm inside the car. Still, Fell feels suddenly very hot, even if he still has his coat on. He is trapped like a moth, pinned, pierced, already taxonomised and ready to be catalogued on a neat little card.

Why did he let Crowley tell him all this, again?

“Instead.” The hands on the steering wheel shift a little, releasing their vice-like grip, as if their owner made a conscious effort to relax but was only moderately successful. “Don’t get me wrong, you are all of those things, and I was prepared for it. What I wasn’t prepared for was everything else, the stuff underneath. The humour, the kindness, the stubbornness. I thought I understood you, and then I wasn’t so sure, and then I was sure I didn’t. At all. I knew how you felt about touching, for example, and I’m sorry for forgetting that so many times. But I also think… Sorry if this comes out wrong, but I think you don’t mind very much anymore. Ah, shit. Words. I’m so much better at writing them. I’m talking too much, aren’t I, angel?”

What is destroying Fell right now, wrenching his guts — it’s a physical sensation, or maybe his feelings have taken residence in his stomach without his knowledge —, the specific thing that’s undoing him is that his heart has been taken from the dark, safe place he has hidden it and brought into an unforgiving, life-giving sunlight. And it’s gentle, so gentle and so devastating. It’s not only the meaning of Crowley’s words that does it, but his tone of voice. He sounds… awe-struck. Fond.

In the silence that follows this revelation, Crowley sighs. It’s not exasperation — Fell knows all too well what _that_ sounds like. It’s worry.

He has to say something.

“I don’t mind if it’s you.” His voice only vaguely resembles his own. He clears his throat. “The touching, I mean. I don’t mind you touching me. It… it’s nice.” There. Was it so difficult? “Yesterday afternoon”, he goes on, gaining confidence, “it was… it was a bit fast, and I still don’t quite know what came over me, but… I have no regrets.”

Crowley peeks at him from behind the sunglasses. “Not too fast, then?”

Fell shakes his head. “Only a bit.”

Crowley nods. “You set the pace”, he says then. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, I’m down.” He turns towards him. “Stop thinking that.”

Fell’s traitorous cheeks blush again. “Don’t read my mind.”

“I’m a novelist and you’re in my car, of course I will. You’re thinking I don’t really mean it, I can’t possibly want that, that I’m saying that only to be nice. Am I correct?”

Fell’s silence and his refusal to look at him tell Crowley all he needs to know. 

“Angel, I’m not nice, I’m never nice. Listen, if we’re doing this, you have to promise me one thing: every time you find yourself thinking something like that, you tell me. So we both win: you have your peace of mind back and I get to tell you you’re wrong. Think about that.”

“If we’re doing this”, Fell echoes.

“We will sit down and put a proper name to it, I promise.” Crowley’s voice is sombre again. “Just… I need to see this other thing through first. When it’s dealt with, we will have a nice dinner and talk about… _this_.”

“That sounds nice”, Fell whispers, because he can’t stop himself from hoping. 

This hope is a fluttering, fledgling thing, still sure for some reason that Crowley will still want him when the time for that dinner comes. 

Crowley pulls in beside a modern flat complex in Mayfair. Fell is so stunned that he forgets to open his umbrella when he gets out of the car. By the time Crowley walks in front of him, a suitcase in each hand, he’s drenched. “You live here.”

Instead of answering, Crowley leaves the suitcases in the doorway, where it’s dry, spreads his arms in a can’t-do-anything-about-it gesture without breaking his stride and goes to retrieve the rest of their luggage.

“You live across the street from Berkeley Square.”

Crowley closes the car and nudges Fell towards the doorway with his free hand, until they’re both out of the rain. “I’d say it’s a two-minute walk at a leisurely pace.”

“You are neighbours with the Queen.”

“Now this is plain wrong. That’s a whole other district.”

“I thought writers were supposed to be… Well, not _poor _per se…”

Crowley, who has been rummaging in his coat pockets for a while, eventually finds a bunch of keys and looks for the one that opens the front door. “Believe me, I’ve done my share of bohemian lifestyle. Not my scene.” He pushes the door open and picks up two of the suitcases. “The money for the flat came from selling Madame’s house, anyway. Do you mind, angel?”

Fell jolts back to the present moment, where Crowley is holding the heavy front door open for him. He picks up the remaining suitcases and follows him inside. They manage to cram their luggage and themselves in the elevator, where Crowley presses an unconscionably high floor number and then starts tapping away at his phone, absentmindedly ruffling his hair with his free hand to shake out the rain. He doesn’t seem to realise that Fell is looking at him, or maybe he doesn’t mind.

When the elevator dings and stops, Fell waits for Crowley to shuffle out and pick the right key in the bunch, then he follows him inside his home. 

And stops, blinking.

Even if he’d ever thought about how he expected Crowley’s house to be, he’d never have come up with something like this. The flat is what people these days call an open space, he guesses, because there are no walls that separate the entrance from the kitchen and the large living room, no door except for one at the far end of the room. He’s not sure his entire bookshop could fit in here, but he can’t rule it out either.

“Here.” Crowley puts the suitcases down a few feet from the door, against the wall, just far enough that no one could trip on them on their way in or out, and then does the same with the two Fell is holding. “Gimme your coat, it should be warm here soon. I switched on heating while we were coming up.”

Fell can’t hope to make sense of that last sentence and doesn’t even try. He rolls his eyes when Crowley takes off his own scarf, coat and jacket and then abandons everything on the sofa’s back. Fell’s happy to be ignored for a bit as he settles in, while Crowley goes around the house, a blue and red blur, chattering to himself about things that need to be done, and something about plants. He looks around, sheepishly at first — he doesn’t want to seem nosy —, then he quickly realises there’s not much to look at. This place is a study in minimalism and looks barely lived in, although one can glean signs of a human presence here and there (a kettle in the kitchen area, a grey blanket on the sofa). 

How much time does Crowley actually spend here? 

Where else does he stay?

The thought makes Fell queasy and he shoves it away, with only a fraction of the practised ease he has developed when it comes to ignoring unpleasantness.

He takes a few steps in the entryway and he sees it: a niche in the wall, with a sort of narrow shelf and a small chromed table, where Crowley dropped his keys. There are a few photos on the shelf, which were hidden up until Fell stepped forward.

He looks at the photos. He stops breathing.

He is too caught up in them to realise right away that Crowley’s talking to him from the kitchen area, among the clattering of cabinets being opened and closed. “You hungry? I have nothing fancy… or edible, apparently, but we can order in, if you want. I’ll put the kettle on, in the meantime. I can finally show you my collection of…” Crowley finally turns around and catches Fell’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t quite know how to ask you this”, Fell says, very slowly, “but, Crowley, did you forgot to mention you have a son?”

“What?” Crowley takes a few long steps towards him and sees what he’s looking at. “Oh, God, no. No, no, that’s my godson.” He walks to the mantelpiece, standing at Fell’s side. He picks up one of the photographs, the one where a small boy with long, dark hair, maybe around ten years old, stands beside a slightly younger Crowley in what appears to be a garden. They are both dressed in black. The little boy is wearing Crowley’s sunglasses and posing with deliberate insouciance, obviously trying to mimic his… godfather?

Fell watches Crowley look at the photograph and tries to decipher the emotions playing on his face. If only it weren’t for those blasted sunglasses. 

Maybe Crowley can actually read his mind (Fell wouldn’t be surprised, at this point), because he takes off his sunglasses and sets them down on the table, not far from the keys. Then he picks up another pair of glasses tossed nearby. Although their rim is still thick and black, they have clear lenses. Crowley looks at Fell as he’s opening his mouth. “Don’t say a word. Come. If you behave, I’ll make you tea and tell you a story.”

Crowley takes the photograph with him and Fell follows him towards the kitchen, looking at the back of his head, where he can almost see the cogs and wheels turn on the inside. How many secrets is this man still keeping? 

No, not secrets, he amends. He has gone so long without trusting another person that he’s forgotten how it feels to dig under strata of manners, banter and personality quirks to find the real person underneath.

The truth is that Crowley has no obligation to tell him anything. Fell has to set his expectations right. He’s not owed his story, but it seems he’s about to have it anyway.

Crowley puts the frame upright on the kitchen isle, then fills the kettle with water. “Please, take a seat. So, this is Warlock. His family were friends with my parents and they asked me to be his godfather. They are not… well, let’s say they’re not very well adjusted. I ended up basically adopting the kid. Or the other way ’round, I suppose. He was a little hellspawn, but what can you expect? When they split, they used him as a bargaining chip.” Everything in Crowley — his tone, his expression — is carefully controlled. “He moved to America with his mother a couple of years ago, after the divorce was settled.” He is keeping his voice in check so it does not break. 

“Does he know about you?” Fell asks, gently.

“About Madame Ashtoreth, you mean? No, I did my best to keep him away from that hell. It’s easier now that he’s not around. He calls from time to time. Teenagers, you know: always have more important things to do. His mother’s been faring better since the divorce, but she’s still a handful. Sometimes she asks him when he'll bring a nice girl home, and he doesn’t know how to tell her that, if anything, it would be a nice boy.”

The air in the room seems warmer. Fell lets his thoughts settle, like loose tea leaves drifting to the bottom of the pot. “I can relate some.”

Having put the kettle on, Crowley plunks down on a kitchen stool near Fell and puts his chin on his hands. “You know, I don’t.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Since Madame found out, every conversation in her home became a screaming match. And I never bothered bringing anyone all the way home.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “But my godson’s not set on having a misspent youth to entertain his future friends with, or so it seems. And he’s not asking my advice, so I can’t offer him any pearl of wisdom. Not explicitly, anyway.”

The penny drops. “That’s why you started writing those books. The ones for young people.”

“They’re tropey, wholesome. Fun to write.” Crowley shrugs, but he doesn’t deny anything, and he doesn’t make eye contact. “I’m not even sure he reads them. I mean, that was a pretty long shot to begin with, kind of stupid of me to assume that…”

“Crowley.” Fell cuts him off and the man mercifully shuts up. “It’s good. You are doing a good thing. If not for your godson, then for many other kids. Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Crowley is still looking away. “It’s not that. It’s that… sometimes I think, is it enough? Should I be doing more for him? Actually be there?”

“Of course it’s enough. Crowley, you’re not his parent and you’re not responsible for the shortcomings of the people who are. He knows you are there for him and he can reach out if he needs you. Right? Then it’s more than I’ve had, for one, and it would have made all the difference.”

“That sucks.”

“I know. If I’d had a single person who cared for me, a good person…”

He has to stop, now, because Crowley has slipped from his stool to throw his arms around his neck. His voice comes muffled, because his mouth is pressed against Fell’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Is this okay? I need it.”

The hug is unexpected, yes, but not unpleasant. Fell gently puts one hand on Crowley’s back, holding onto the countertop with the other. “Of course it’s all right. You don’t have to check every time.”

“I do. And I’m sorry for everything you had to go through. You deserved a good person to care for you. At the very least. You still do.”

“It’s all right. I have a few people now. And I have you.”

Crowley’s breathy laugh tickles on Fell’s neck. “Not sure if I qualify as a good person.”

“I am.”

“Yeah, but you fancy me. I don’t trust your judgement.”

Little epiphanies come to Fell at the most unexpected times. His brain has always worked like that (it’s not middle age’s fault, is what he means.) Like so many other things about him, it works slowly and patiently, crunching invisible equations and offering him the solution when it’s ready, and not a moment before.

The epiphany Fell is having right now isn’t small. It is, of course, about love.

He’s been without a partner or a family for much of his life, and yet he often thinks about love. No one can survive without it, he believes, and he’s sought it out where it could be found, treating it like a delicate seed to nourish and cultivate. What he feels for his books is absolute, unrelenting love. It’s in the little things: the smell of old pages — which is, after all, the swan’s song of a dying tree, and he’s always found it rather poetic —, the little noises in the bookshop, the way sunlight slants through the ceiling window at a certain hour of late autumn afternoons. And he loves the words, most of all; he loves conjuring up the kindred spirits of people long since dead and enjoying their company for a while. Most of the time, he can be alone without feeling lonely.

And what he feels for Anathema is love. She’s unruly and bright and loves him so fiercely that she apparently bullied Anthony Crowley into apologising to him. 

What he is starting to feel for the book club kids is more like a mother hen instinct, which of course is a form of love, too. 

He doesn’t just fancy Crowley. He understands now, so clearly that he almost says it out loud. 

What he feels for him is love, and it would still feel it even if Crowley didn’t reciprocate.

This realisation is quiet and solid and unmoving. It’s there, waiting to be accepted and embraced. The truth is that he’s loved him since before they met, through his books, and he’s familiar with this kind of love. That kind of love is… cerebral, and it’s not less because it comes from the brain.

This other kind of love, though, the love he is recognizing just now for what it is… It feels more like faith.

He thinks about saying it out loud. Why not? There’s no reason to keep it a secret. A part of him is still bothered by the ugly things he read on the Internet this morning. But this one, the Crowley who hugged him because his heart was broken, this is the Crowley he knows. The person underneath all the layers.

Fell lets him go enough to look him in the eye. He didn’t notice it before, but the lenses of Crowley’s glasses are quite thick. His eyesight must really be rubbish, as Crowley himself put it. Fell takes them off (slowly, waiting for an objection that doesn’t come) and lays them carefully on the table. “My judgment and my taste in fine things have been thoroughly tested through time”, he says, and he kisses him.

He holds Crowley’s jaw still with his fingertips and he kisses him as if he were quoting a favourite poem from memory. He nudges Crowley’s mouth open with the care he’d use to cut the pages of an eighteenth-century book. And when Crowley, kissing him back, climbs onto his lap, Fell holds him there with a hand on his back. 

There is something desperate in the way Crowley is kissing him, something Fell adds to the list of things they need to address. But there’s also a bit of his soul, in the way Crowley is kissing him, so Fell doesn’t bring it up.

Instead, he stands up, lifting Crowley with him, grabbing his skinny thighs and laughing when a surprised yelp escapes Crowley’s lips, arms clenching around Fell’s neck, almost strangling him.

When Crowley realises what’s happening, he laughs too and lets go a little. “And you said I was _heavy_.”

“When you’re lying on me with all your weight, yes. But I am willing and capable to carry you over there.”

His arms still around Fell’s neck, Crowley turns to see where Fell has nodded to. “The couch?”

“It’ll do.” And Fell carries the man he’s in love with to the nearest comfortable flat surface.

Like so many other things in Crowley’s flat, the couch is made of severe grey corners, but it still looks like it will be more forgiving to Fell’s knees than the cold, hard floor. He gently lays Crowley down and takes the time to take off his jacket, watching as Crowley’s eyes follow his every movement. Then he lies on him, adjusting their limbs until they are comfortable together, and he presses careful, purposeful kisses on his lips, his cheekbones, his jaw. 

Crowley sighs. “Wanna know something I was thinking about?”

Fell puts his lips on Crowley’s Adam’s apple and looks up. “Yes.”

“Every time I’m scared I’ve upset you, you kiss me.”

“Are you saying I’m reinforcing your bad behaviours?”

“I’m saying, whatever works for you.”

Fell hesitates for just a second, then keeps trailing his way down Crowley’s throat and chest. It’s not long before he has to unbutton his shirt to go on. “You’re keeping the shirt”, he says, absent-mindedly.

Something in Crowley’s body language suggests sudden attention. “Oh?”

“I like seeing you wearing it.”

“Oh, actually that’s another pattern.” Crowley lets his head fall back on the couch with a grunt. “Every time I’m wearing something of yours, you kiss me.”

“I’ve kissed you on other occasions.” He licks Crowley’s skin. The taste is undefinable but, like a strong red, it goes straight to his head. The shiver that goes through Crowley’s body spurs him to do it again, this time more slowly. He presses an open mouth kiss there, right above Crowley’s heart, while bunching up the light blue fabric and the black undershirt. He thinks about kissing Crowley in a corridor, soft, black cotton under his hands. He wants to say something that’s been on his mind for a while, and he can’t find anything, absolutely no reason not to do it. “You looked good enough to eat, in that old t-shirt of yours.”

It was a good call, after all. The shiver that runs through Crowley’s body is more intense than the last one, and Fell can feel all kinds of interesting reverberations in himself.

If he stopped now, Fell would probably start analysing the way his body seems to resonate with Crowley’s, how it responds to silent questions without any input from his conscious mind, a way it’s never done before. So many things have never happened to him before, and all the years he’s had to make his peace with that have been unraveled and overturned in a matter of days. He has been touched and wanted and kissed before, but the unripe cravings of young men meant nothing to him, and so he never sought those things again. (They told him there would never be anything more for someone like him, and he believed them.)

They didn’t tell him he would find himself on a couch in Mayfair, making a gorgeous, kind, conflicted man shiver from pleasure with his words and his touch. He wouldn’t have believed them, anyway.

They didn’t tell him how hard it would be to focus on undoing a belt buckle when he’s loath to stop kissing that man’s skin, especially after he’s found out the effect his tongue has when it brushes against a nipple. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to entertain the mere thought.

It’s not bad, he thought back then. There’s still meaning to be found.

And for years he’s found it, and he’s not discounting his achievements. This is just — _just_ — another one of them, one he is very proud of.

Fell gives up and pulls away from Crowley’s chest, so he can use both his hands to undo that annoying belt buckle. 

Perhaps realising only now what his intentions are, Crowley props himself up on his elbows, alarmed. “Do you… You don’t have to, I…”

“I want to”, says Fell. Calm, determined. He’s never dealt with a skittish animal, but if he ever did he would use this tone.

Crowley looks about to insist, but something in Fell’s voice derails his resolution. Is he blushing? “If you want to do it, I can’t say no. Do you understand?”

There’s something here, Fell is perceptive enough to understand it. Maybe yesterday he would have stopped and insisted they talked it out. But not today. Today he has a man under his hands who’s desperately trying to hide his fear and his worry under the guise of restraint and consideration, and he feels there are more efficient ways than words to improve the situation.

“I do”, he answers, pulling the belt all the way out and letting it drop to the floor.

He sees Crowley swallow, his breath catching, but he stays blessedly silent as he helps Fell lowering jeans that are too tight for his own good.

And that’s everything there is, because Crowley’s not wearing any underwear (Fell has questions, but he doesn’t harbour the smallest amount of surprise) and he is suddenly before him, naked and ready.

Fell has no practical knowledge that can be helpful, other than distant memories and a comprehensive literary education, both of which are really just blueprints, directions given to a foreigner who has a basic grasp of the language. But it cannot be _that _difficult.

“Tell me if I’m doing this right”, he says, before he bends over and flicks his tongue against Crowley’s tip.

When he doesn’t get an answer, he pulls back and looks at him with the words already in his mouth — _I’m talking literally, Crowley, I want to do this right and I need directions _—, but he doesn’t say them. He cannot, because Crowley is all mussed hair and wide eyes and open mouth and his shirt is delightfully rumpled, and he belongs in a museum, he belongs in fucking Arcadia. If there ever was doubt that the gods walked this Earth, the proof is here before him. Fell swallows. “You look so… you don’t know how good you are”, he says before he can think any better, and where’s his usual reticence when he needs it?

But Crowley gasps, and his reaction to his stupid words is even more evident from Fell’s current privileged point of view, so he doesn’t regret them.

_Let me tell you, let me show you_, he wants to say with his mouth and his tongue. But he’s not using words, this time.

He flicks his tongue again, this time holding Crowley in his hand. The taste is foreign but not unpleasant at all. He licks more slowly, now, and then takes the tip in his mouth.

In this short span of time, Crowley’s breath has become its own language. It is a dialogue, in a sense, in the way a moan follows the drag of a tongue, how gasping and sucking go together like an answer to a question. Fell takes his time and learns what makes Crowley whimper and what makes him sigh, until the other man can’t take it anymore.

“Come here”, Crowley says, out of breath, gesturing. “If you don’t stop, I’ll…”

Fell doesn’t stop.

“No, I… Come here.”

Eager hands pull on Fell’s shirt as he reluctantly makes his way up, towards Crowley’s mouth, which has never kissed him with this desperate hunger. Then those same hands reach Fell’s trousers and quickly open them. Crowley’s mouth catches Fell’s surprised gasp when restless fingers pull the fabric out of the way and find him. Should he be embarrassed of how hard he is already? The truth is he doesn’t care, not now, not with Crowley groaning when he finds out, kissing him even deeper.

“Come here, move up a little, _fuck._” Crowley swears when Fell does as he’s told and they become a tangle of limbs, their most sensitive parts brushing and making Fell almost swear as well.

Crowley adjusts and takes both of their cocks in his hand. “How does this feel? Not too much? Is this good?”

Fell doesn’t trust his voice and he just nods. It has to be enough.

“Good”, Crowley whispers in his mouth, before kissing him again and moving his hand, and Fell’s heart, no, his whole body is about to explode.

He whimpers when he comes, to his own great embarrassment, which is compounded by the fact that it takes Crowley only a few strokes to undo him. But Crowley's own expression is raw and bare, as he closes his eyes and follows him a few seconds later. Fell looks at him, actually looks at his face to take it all in, and he doesn't look away or hide when Crowley opens his eyes and looks at him as they both ride out their orgasms.

He can do it. He can be like this, naked – in more than one sense – with Crowley. He can lay himself open and not be afraid he'll get hurt. This is Crowley. He'll keep him safe.

Crowley's free hand travels to Fell's nape and he brings their foreheads into contact. “That was…”

“Yes”, Fell whispers, when it seems that Crowley won't finish the sentence.

But he goes on. “That was… Fuck, you are wonderful.”

“Stop.” _You are, you gorgeous thing, you miracle. _But he can't say any of that, not in this life, not being him. _I'm not, I'm an old, useless man. _And even these familiar thoughts don't sting as they used to. They ring a little less true, for one.

“Tell me what you're thinking.” Crowley doesn’t let him go as he tries to look at him without crossing his eyes. It’s not an order, it’s more of a gentle reproach. 

That’s the only thing that makes Fell able to answer. “So you can tell me I'm wrong?”

Instead of a witty comeback, he gets a short laugh and peck on his lips. “You did it for me, didn't you?”

“Excuse me?”

“To take my mind off the meeting.”

“That was part of it. But I did get something in return, after all. Two birds with one stone, really. Oh, the kettle! I forgot about that. You put that on a while ago, didn’t you?”

Crowley laughs and strokes Fell’s nape. “Am I supposed to be offended that you’re thinking about tea right now?”

“Well, _now_ I’m thinking about it.” As he exhales, Fell allows himself to be here, with Crowley. (He thinks about saying it out loud, but he’s afraid the thought wouldn’t make sense for anyone but himself.) “I was thinking about how happy I am with you”, he says instead. He feels his cheeks burn, but he doesn’t hide this time either. So what if he comes across as an imbecile? It’s true: this is another form happiness will take for him, when he thinks about its definition. 

Instead of replying, Crowley looks at the ceiling, eyes suddenly unfocusing, brow furrowed. He opens his mouth, then thinks again. “Let me go get a towel”, he says instead, patting Fell’s shoulder to make him move.

Fell scoots and lets him disappear beyond a door that apparently leads to the bathroom. He’s not worried. (Well, he’s always worried. His worry levels are to an all-time low, though, at least in this department.) If he’s learned anything about the man, is that Crowley’s brain works in mysterious, chaotic ways. Whatever thought crossed his mind just then, Fell just has to wait for Crowley to figure it out.

So, they have tea.

(Crowley made him choose from his famous tea collection and was sorely disappointed when Fell made his choice. “What do you mean, this one?”

“This one.”

“But it’s English Breakfast.”

“I’m well aware.”

“It’s _plain_.”

And Fell thinks about all the possible answers he can give to that, including taking his leave. 

He ends up shaking his head. And staying.)

They have tea sitting at the kitchen isle, and Crowley is tense but he doesn’t look like a shaking, restless bundle of nerves anymore. He has his hair up, his black-rimmed glasses on and is still wearing Fell’s shirt, who was miraculously left unscathed by their, uhm, _efforts_ on the couch. He is talking about books and Fell is only half-listening, because he’s too busy being enchanted.

He barely registers when Crowley changes the subject, until he catches a word that snaps him to attention.

“I’ll do it before going to Highfell’s office tomorrow, and before you ask, you can stay here as long as you want.” Then Crowley catches Fell’s expression. “Angel, are you all right?”

“Did you say Highfell?” Fell’s voice is high-pitched, and he knows he must look alarming, but collecting himself is harder than usual.

“Yes, as in Gabriel Highfell, my lawyer.” 

“Oh.” Fell exhales, as he tries not to be buried under the portion of the world that has just crashed on him. “Of course. What were the odds?”

Crowley knits his eyebrows and reaches out, covering one of Fell’s hand with his own. “What? What did he do? Do you know him?”

His face swims a little before Fell’s eyes as his vision blurs. He blinks, and the grey dots subside a little. “Know him? Why, yes.” Without meaning to, he’s resorted to his business voice. “He’s family.”

Crowley blinks too, perplexed. “What?”

“_Was _family, is probably more correct.” Fell takes a deep breath, looking at the ceiling as though he expects to find a script for how to tell this story, or a way out of it. “Did I mention my father owns a law firm?”

“Oh, Christ.” Crowley squeezes his hand. He’s got it immediately, bless him. He nods to Fell’s cup of tea. “Do you need something stronger than that?”

Fell shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary, thank you. Well, I suppose my father isn’t at the helm of the firm anymore, is he?”

“Not as far as I know”, Crowley answers. “So, is Gabriel your… brother?”

“Cousin, and apparently the one who replaced Father. And me.”

“So let me see if I got this straight: my lawyer works for your family law firm?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s your cousin.”

“Yes.”

“Your last names are too similar to be a coincidence.”

“They are the same. I changed mine when I opened the bookshop.” Fell manages a weak smile. “Cutting ties and all that. And it suited me, the black sheep.”

“You are nothing like him”, Crowley says. “I wouldn’t want anything to do with relatives like him either, were I in your place.”

Fell swallows. “Thank you, my dear. But I’m quite all right. It was just… unexpected.”

“Like hell, it was.” Crowley inhales and holds Fell’s hand even tighter. “Listen, I was thinking. Hear me out before you say no.”

Fell raises an eyebrow, but Crowley goes on before he can point out how this premise doesn’t look promising at all.

“You should come to the meeting.”

The only reason Fell is not caught off guard is because he was expecting something along these lines and has already thought about how to turn it down. Still, hearing Crowley say the words feels like a new kind of pain. Thank God he’s already sitting down. “I don’t think my presence would be appropriate or wanted.”

“Listen, if you want to bail out now, I understand. You didn't sign up for any of this. But…” Crowley leans forward, pleading with his eyes, his whole body. “I just realised I don’t want to make decisions about my life without you.” He shrugs, but Fell can see through him. He doesn’t say it lightly. (Who says something like _this_ lightly? There must be some people. Crowley’s not one of them.) “I’m sorry, I’m putting too much pressure on y—”

“You’re wrong.” Fell blinks, and this time he takes Crowley’s hand, he takes it between both his own and holds it gently. “I knew. I _did _sign up for this. And I don’t care what decision you make, as long as you feel it’s the right one for you.”

“You don’t care”, Crowley echoes, with a hollow voice.

“I… That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You should think of yourself first.” Why are words so hard? With all the books he’s read, one should expect a little more eloquence. “Whatever you choose to do, we will figure things out.”

Crowley smiles weakly. “Aren’t we the optimists.”

“I am feeling quite confident indeed.” As he says it, Fell realises that it’s true. It’s a strange feeling, a bit like having a balloon inside his chest. He chooses his next words carefully. “Correct me if I’m wrong, or presuming, but I wouldn’t want you to make important decisions based on what you feel I would prefer.”

Crowley perks up. “See, that’s why you should come to the meeting.”

“Well, we can't very well go to the City together.” He remembers Highfell & Sons’ headquarters. The building still haunts his nightmares, sometimes. Fell almost waves away the thought physically. Let’s just say it’s in a very public place, busy at all times.

Crowley drums his fingers on the countertop. “We could… No, hear me out first. We could have the meeting here.” He has a hand on his phone before Fell can think about what to say, but he doesn’t pick it up. “Think about it.”

“I will.” He will, he knows he will, but not now. Without breaking eye contact, Fell brings Crowley’s hand to his lips and kisses his fingers.

There’s something in the depths of Crowley’s whisky-coloured eyes, something that wasn’t there before. It speaks of life and determination. Fell wouldn’t know how to put it any other way. Crowley waits for a few seconds, then he slips it from Fell’s grasp and cups his cheek. “We can do this.”

Fell nods. “We can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com) is certified 80% pure _Good Omens_ stuff.


	8. Disturb the Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while! Thank you for your patience, I love you.  
There’s a mild panic attack in this chapter, so TW for that. If you wish to avoid it, it goes from the paragraph starting with “When he comes out of the bathroom” to the end of the section.  
Chapter title comes from [the usual suspect](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock).  
Last but not least, this chapter was beta-ed by [seekwill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/pseuds/seekwill), whose support and friendship continue to be invaluable.

_And indeed there will be time_  
_To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”..._  
_Do I dare_  
_Disturb the universe?_  
_In a minute there is time_  
_For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse._

* * *

The sky over St. James’ Park is overcast and drab. As far as Christmas Eves go, this one is quite disappointing.

Fell looks up from time to time as he strolls towards the Mall, expecting rain. His pockets are empty, since you can’t feed the assorted avian fauna that lives by the pond anymore, like he used to do when he first moved to London. He thinks about making a short detour and see the pelicans, but the first droplets make him opt to head home before it starts to pour in earnest.

He opens the tartan umbrella he’s brought with him. He always checks the forecast before going out.

As he crosses the Blue Bridge, he forgets for a moment to school his thoughts and they slip, wondering what Crowley’s doing. His flat must be only a ten-minute walk from here.

With something just a little too calculated to properly be panic, he crushes the rogue thought until nothing remains of it.

It is very important that he does not think of Crowley right now, or the fact that he hasn’t spoken to him in two months.

_ Two months earlier _

“It shouldn’t be that hard. Fuck’s sake, I have a degree in Astrophysics.”

Fell didn’t mean to laugh, but Crowley’s baffled tone is quite hilarious. His laugh softens when the other man looks at him, taken aback. “My dear, have you seriously never used your own washing machine?”

Crowley’s scowl almost makes Fell laugh again. “That’s what an assistant is for.” He sounds annoyed, but also determined.

“The instructions might still be around somewhere”, Fell suggests, trying to help.

“Bee probably used them to… I dunno, light a dumpster on fire or something. I’ll look them up online. But these things should really be more intuitive.”

Fell, who still uses the washing machine that was in the flat when he moved there twenty-odd years ago (an antique piece of machinery, which works on thorough maintenance and probably a lot of faith, with two wobbly knobs and a total lack of any instruction or symbol whatsoever), changes the subject. “I’ve already told you, you really don’t have to do my laundry.”

Crowley stops tapping away on the phone and lifts his eyes from the screen. “Do you have any more clean clothes with you?”

“No, but…”

“Do you think you could borrow mine?”

Fell briefly imagines himself trying to fit into Crowley’s jeans, or wearing one of his t-shirts. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then I don’t see what’s wrong with it. Let me see if I can get this thing to work without getting an engineering degree. That’s where I draw the line.” He focuses back to the phone. “And then it’s the dryer’s turn.”

The evening had barely begun to spread out over the city when Crowley suggested doing laundry, before realising he had no idea how to operate his own washing machine. Resting his chin on his hands, Fell looks at him from what has become _ his _kitchen stool, in front of what remains of their late lunch. In the last few hours, they have ordered from a Thai restaurant (between them, they know all the best restaurants and take-aways in London) and the’ve showered (separately). The heating system has brought the temperature in the flat from nippy to acceptable, and Crowley’s hair is drying in lovely curls. He has another t-shirt on (similar but not identical to the one Fell knows), the loosest pair of trousers he has ever worn in his presence, his black-rimmed, clear glasses and, of all things, a shawl: it’s a black number, with fringes and a faint, silvery flower motive. It looks old and loved, like one of those passed-on pieces of clothing which are worn only inside the house. It’s uncanny, how well it suits him.

Fell refrains from replying as Crowley peruses the unending knowledge of the Internet. Instead he looks at him some more, while picking at loose threads in the bathrobe he’s wearing.

(He’s not precisely at ease, you see, because being presentable is like wearing armour to him. But, for the first time in forever, he doesn’t feel like he needs to wear it. Maybe it’s just the novelty of it that makes him uncomfortable. 

He needs time to settle in it, and he wants to, so he will get there. Eventually.)

“You could help, instead of ogling me”, Crowley says, without looking up.

Instead of the stuttered apology he would have stumbled through only a few days ago, Fell smiles. “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

A raised eyebrow. “Thank you for the ringing endorsement. Bring me your stuff, I think I’m about to hit a breakthrough.”

Obediently, Fell slides off the stool and opens his suitcase, returning with a handful of shirts.

Crowley blinks. “Is that it?”

It’s Fell’s turn to raise his eyebrow. “You’re not washing any of my undergarments. We are most definitely not at that stage yet.”

The eyeroll he gets for this observation could power a little electrical appliance on its own. “Suit yourself, grandma. I’ll speed the courtship up.”

The way they’ve been behaving around each other, you’d think Fell’s had enough time to get used to these sort of jokes, but the beat his heart skips tells him otherwise. His mind isn’t helpful either, providing him with a few suggestions as to the best course of action, which include hooking a finger into the waist of Crowley’s trousers, drawing him close and kissing him senseless. Make him sit on the counter, maybe, settle between his legs, run his fingers through his freshly-washed hair, nuzzle his neck and see if he still smells as good as he remembers… 

But he’s still owed a talk.

Dinner, Crowley has said. They’ll have dinner and talk about this. _ This. _ Fell already knows what he will say. He trusts that Crowley will say the same (he has faith in it. In _ him _), but he still needs to hear the words before he takes it a step too far and ruins everything.

The meeting, tomorrow. When the meeting’s over, they’ll talk. Everything will be all right then. One more day.

Just like that, Fell realises he has made another decision, almost without noticing. He waits until Crowley has finished pushing all the buttons and the washing machine starts quietly humming like an expensive car. “You should phone Bee.”

Crowley studies him. “Should I?”

“To tell them you’re having the meeting here. If it’s not too late…”

But Crowley has already picked up his phone. “It’s not.”

Without breaking eye contact, Fell takes Crowley’s free hand.

Crowley raises their hands and kisses Fell’s knuckles, speaking against them a moment later. “Hey, Bee. How’s your leg?”

Inevitably, it gets late. Fell’s clothes are in the dryer, which was a lot easier to operate than the washing machine, and what remained of their late lunch has been disposed of with the help of a glass or two of Montepulciano. Against all odds, it’s a satisfying dinner: the wine is pleasantly dry, for one, and the way Crowley’s red-stained lips look when he smiles at one of Fell’s understated jokes is dizzily enchanting.

Anyway, it gets _ late _.

Fell waits for a lull in the conversation to broach the subject he’s been mulling over for a while, now. “I’ll sleep on the couch, if that’s all right.”

Crowley, who has both his elbows on the counter, rests one forearm on the other. His careful, controlled movements betray his hesitation. “What, my bed’s not good enough?”

How is Fell going to argue that sleeping in the same bed in a hotel room and _ in Crowley’s flat _are not the same thing? That he needs more time before he’s ready to deal with the weight of the expectations it implies?

It turns out he doesn’t have to say anything. 

“I won’t try to steal your virtue, you know.” Crowley’s tone is light, amused, but also fond and understanding. “If that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just that… The truth is that I sleep better when I’m not alone. And I’ve found that I enjoy not-sleeping-alone with you. Very much, in fact.” He’s looking down, now, where he’s tracing invisible patterns on the marble with his index finger. “I was kinda looking forward to it, actually.”

Fell clears his throat, where something seems to be stuck. “Well, if you put it like that.”

What Fell mistook for a wall on the other side of the room is a huge revolving door that doesn’t lead straight to the bedroom, but instead opens into a cosy room with a huge floor-to-ceiling window. During the day it must be extraordinarily bright, but now it offers an incredible view over the rainy city, with the droplets almost hitting the glass itself. But the window is still not the centrepiece of the room: the scene is stolen by lots and lots of plants in pots of every dimension, huge ones on the floor and smaller ones on trellises and shelves. Some have leaves as big as trays, others spill over the edge of their vases in pale green leaflets. A couple of sunlight lamps hang on the ceiling, bathing the room in a warm, natural light.

Fell is speechless for a while. “Crowley, this is beautiful.” When no answer comes, he turns and sees him standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, something resembling a smile on his lips. “Wonderful”, he adds, with emphasis.

“They’re just plants.” Crowley brushes the compliment aside, but Fell can plainly see that they are not _ just plants _. They are well-cared for and loved, the first clear sign of Crowley’s personality he has seen since he has stepped into what’s supposed to be his home.

He takes a step closer to him and takes his hand. “Let’s go to bed, and you can tell me all about your secret green fingers.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “_ Fine _.”

The bedroom is past another door. Like the rest of the flat, save for the plant room, it’s minimalistic and sparsely furnished, all in grey tones, although a few shades lighter. The wardrobe is built in the wall and the sheets and duvet on the double bed are slate-coloured. Fell knows very little about feng shui, and it’s probably better this way.

Crowley lets his hand go to show him around, somewhat awkwardly. “There’s another bathroom in there, if you want to change. I’ll go… fetch some water. All right?” And he’s out of the room before Fell can answer.

So he takes his time in the second bathroom, which is smaller than the first one but is still another whole bathroom, something a person living on their own needs only one of, surely? Fell can vividly picture his cosy flat above the shop, made even more cramped by his inability to keep the clutter in check, with the shabby lighting fixtures holding low-wattage light bulbs and the ancient Morris wallpaper he saw no reason to change. His own bathroom is more of an afterthought than an actual room. But he’d never needed more.

Now his brain starts down a path full of half-formed thoughts, all ending with a question mark. He exhales from his nose as he shrugs out of the bathrobe and folds it without thinking. He has brought everything he needs for his nightly routine for the trip, and he looks at his reflection in the huge mirror as he absent-mindedly brushes his teeth. A few more unfinished thoughts make their way through his brain — _ is this too much? Too little? Too soon? Too late? And what will you do? If? _

He just lets them fade away. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, he sees that Crowley is already on the bed, in the same nightwear he wore on the trip, or something very similar, looking the farthest he can be from a person who’s ready to sleep. He’s sitting up against the headboard, hugging his legs, with his chin propped on his knees. His hair is messy, probably not a choice but the result of running his hands through it repeatedly.

Fell is pulled towards him and doesn’t resist this force. He sits on the bed and strokes his bare arm. “Crowley. It’s going to be all right. I’m sure of it.”

But he doesn’t react, and honestly it wasn’t much, as far as encouraging words go. When Crowley hides his face on his knees and leans towards him, Fell pulls him in his arms and holds him against his chest. 

It doesn’t take long for his breath to get shallow and laboured, and for his body to start shaking. Crowley doesn’t pull away, though; instead he slides one arm over Fell’s waist, pressing against him.

Fell knows what’s happening. He used to think he was the only one to have these sort of spells, and that they were the result of a lack of character, like his mother was fond of saying. After a few enlightening chats with Anathema, he realised he was wrong on both accounts, and as he centered his life around a neat routine the panic attacks became less and less frequent.

He also knows that being here is the most he can do to help. So he pushes his own worry aside and holds Crowley close, stroking his head and his back. “It’s all right”, he says again, and he lays his cheek on Crowley’s head. “I’m here. It’s okay. Everything is going to be fine. You’re fine, dearest. I’m here.”

He keeps talking nonsense until the shaking subsides, until the fingers clenching the fabric on his back relax and Crowley’s breath slowly returns to normal.

“I’m here”, Fell says again, kissing Crowley’s hair to drive the concept home. “Not going anywhere. Well, except maybe to turn off the light, if that’s all right with you.”

Instead of answering, Crowley lets out a deep, shuddery breath and reaches over, brushing a small white rectangle on the wall beside the bed. The lights slowly fade, leaving the room dark.

They get under the covers. This bed is more spacious than in the single one at Madame Tracy’s place, but Crowley slots himself against Fell much in the same way and immediately falls in an exhaustion-induced sleep. It’s almost eerie how the sensation of holding him close is already embedded in Fell’s muscle memory, as if it’s something that they’ve always done, another part of his routine. 

As he shifts to get more comfortable, Fell looks for a word to describe the way this reminds him of something he should have no memory of, and he’s still searching for it when he falls asleep.

_ 24 December _

The bell above the bookshop door rings with indifference once, and then a second time, as he closes the door and turns the key into the lock. It’s not as chilly outside as other winters he remembers, but the warmth of the bookshop is still pleasant.

He hangs his coat and scarf and loosens the bowtie he has worn out of habit, since the ducks aren’t that fashion-savvy. He silently performs these simple, mindless tasks and others, such as turning on the computer and putting the kettle on in the little kitchen upstairs while he waits for the ancient machine to boot up.

It’s not that he’s been unproductive or lazy, these past few weeks. On the contrary, he’s never been busier. As soon as he was able to come back to the bookshop, he wandered through it in a sort of haze. He served customers on autopilot, doing all the things that needed to be done (he barely remembers those days, but he checked: his ledger is in order, everything’s accounted for). But he couldn’t very well keep the shop open at night and for the first time he realised how much free time he has. He used to be able to fill it with books and dinners and theatre and other diversions which required him to be focused and, most of all, to have a heart for it. And he didn’t have it, not anymore, not like before, not right away.

Next Saturday morning, at breakfast, Anathema offered a solution. “Come to the library.”

“When?” he asked instead of _ why? _, for some reason.

“You’re closed on Sunday mornings, right? Come by. We have a volunteer program, you can sign up.”

He looked at her over his teacup as if her suggestion made sense. “What kind of program?”

Anathema smiled and took a bite of her scone.

So Fell started to spend his Sunday mornings at the library, reading to a bunch of kids who show varied degrees of interest in him. The books are always age appropriate but, since Anathema chose them, are very different from the quasi-Victorian stuff he remembers from his own childhood. 

The volunteer readers program, Anathema explained to him, was meant to give the children’s caregivers some free time. But sometimes parents and grandparents stopped by, browsing the library’s selection, reading, or listening to the stories themselves. Some of them approached him after the hour was over, and they were usually very kind, so he didn’t mind chatting with them. Once, he complimented a young mom on the socks she was knitting, and a grandmother nearby overheard the conversation. They started talking crafts and, long story short, he made a short detour and went back to the bookshop with a shiny new Singer sewing machine, a handful of silk offcuts and a few lengths of black satin trimming.

(Like he said, he tries not to let his thoughts wander in a certain direction. He doesn’t always succeed.)

“Hello, Mr Fell”, said a cheerful voice one afternoon, in between the rings of the bell.

He came out of the backroom, where he had been perusing the DIY side of the Internet searching for tutorials, and smiled. “Lori, my dear. How are you?”

The girl returned the smile with an intensity that almost made him blink. After exchanging pleasantries, she went to the point. “I need to talk to you about our November book club meeting. We still haven’t made a choice and I thought, why not ask an expert’s opinion? Are you very busy?”

Fell restrained himself from glancing around the bookshop and wondering aloud where the usual crowd went. “I’m not. And I always have time for you, regardless.”

They sat at Fell’s desk and talked about the bookshop’s forced closure and reopening, and the last weeks of uni classes before the holiday break. When Lori mentioned something about the English Lit syllabus being “totally random”, Fell inquired and found that not only did he have some of the texts on hand, but that he had read all of them.

He hesitated for a split second, before deciding that he didn’t want to be the kind of person who hesitated at all in moments like these. “Look, it’s almost closing time. Why don’t you come by tomorrow afternoon and we can have a look at them?”

The deer-in-the-headlights look that Lori gave him was almost as blinding as her smile had been earlier. “I will, Mr Fell! Thank you!”

It was only after she left that Fell realised they hadn’t discussed the book club’s book of the month at all. Well, they could talk about it the next day.

_ Two months ago _

It takes until the first doorbell ring for the thought to settle into Fell’s mind: he is actually doing this. He is facing a member of his family after almost twenty years of separation. And he’s doing it of his own accord, yes, but not on his home turf. Not that he doesn't have skin in the game, as they say, but he doesn’t know if he’d have done this at all, if he’d been free to choose.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether this is good or bad, because a flurry of black clothes darts past him and presses a button near the door, presumably to let whoever it is in, without even bothering to find out who they are.

Crowley and Fell look at each other — or, rather, Fell looks in Crowley’s sunglasses, which are back, obviously — and then at the door, as they hear people coming out of the lift towards Crowley’s flat. Releasing the breath he was holding, Crowley opens the door.

“... and I don’t care what you say, I’m not dealing with it.” With the help of a couple of crutches that are just a little too high to be comfortable, Bee steps in. They barely acknowledge Crowley as they continue to argue with the tall, impeccably dressed man behind them, who’s trying to help them and is failing spectacularly. 

A third person walks behind them: back straight, sensible shoes, brown hair perfectly coiffed, professionally unimpressed expression, the woman is dressed in a sharp grey suit and carries an unspecified number of briefcases and dossiers in her arms.

As Bee makes their way to the kitchen and starts opening and closing cabinets, making themself at home without acknowledging anyone, the man rolls his eyes and shouts one final retort. “You realise the hospital is going to want that paperwork signed one way or the other, right? And, as always, that’s my problem”, he adds flatly, before focusing on Crowley. “And how is my favourite client doing?”

From where he stands, Fell cannot see Crowley’s face, but he expects a sarcastic remark. Instead he can barely hear him say: “He’ll do better when this is over”.

Crowley turns slightly, as if to make introductions, but the other man notices Fell first, and in the moment they first make eye contact Fell knows two things: first, Gabriel hasn’t recognised him, and second, he needs to be careful. His cousin’s smile is bright and fake, and Fell is almost tempted to look behind Gabriel’s back to see where the knife is hidden.

“What’s this, a guest? Are you entertaining now, Crowley?” Gabriel doesn’t wait for an answer and takes a few steps forward, extending his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Gabriel Highfell, of Highfell & Sons.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fell sees that Crowley is about to intervene, and he knows what to do. He may seem helpless, but even a pawn’s move can make a difference on the chessboard. He takes Gabriel’s hand and shakes it, ignoring the pain from the other man’s crushing squeeze. “Zira Highfell. One of the ‘Sons’ you just mentioned, I believe.”

He watches Gabriel’s face go through an entire journey of expressions, from perplexed to incredulous to shocked, and what if he can’t completely hide a grin at the knowledge that he’s just eaten a bishop? He’s still holding Gabriel’s hand, because while he is processing the situation his cousin hasn’t let it go, and he breaks eye contact only for a moment to glance at Crowley, who is looking at him with disbelief and pride at the same time.

As he waits for Gabriel to break the silence, another voice chimes in. 

“Zira?” The woman with the files steps forward. Her eyes probe Fell as Gabriel finally lets go of his hand. “So it’s you, the third party Beatrice mentioned. How unexpected.” She waits another second, eyes narrowed, before extending her own hand. “I’m Michael, Gabriel’s twin.”  
“Of course, I remember.” Fell actually does. His more recent memories of Michael are of a ruthless law student, who left more than one metaphorical corpse in her wake on her way to her LSE degree. He hopes they were metaphorical, at least.

“How lovely.” Bee’s voice comes from the kitchen, where they’re leaning on the counter eating the sandwich they have assembled without asking if anyone wanted something to eat, and looking at the scene from afar. “If we’re done with the family reunion, can we get a move on?”

Unlike the law firm’s headquarters, Crowley’s flat doesn’t have anything resembling a conference room, so they repurpose the living room’s coffee table and add a few chairs around it. Bee immediately calls dibs on the couch, though they have to lean on several cushions and prop their leg on the coffee table to be comfortable. Fell is imprudent enough to ask them about the cast and how long they’ll have to wear it, and the answer is a snappish: “Too fucking long”.

Anathema arrives a few minutes later, along with another woman Fell doesn’t know — it will turn out they met in the lift, discovering they were headed to the same place once they both walked towards Crowley’s door —, and when he greets her in the entrance she hugs him like she hasn’t seen him in months, instead of a few days.

“Are you all right?” she whispers in his ear, without letting him go.

He pats her back. “Everything’s fine.”

“I know, but are _ you _?”

Fell smiles against the padded shoulder of her coat and echoes Crowley’s answer. “I will be.”

She finally stands back, searching his face, and deems what she sees acceptable. She still doesn’t make a move towards the living room, looking at all the people there from a distance. Meanwhile, the other woman is getting rid of her scarf and coat while hovering over Bee, talking quietly and urgently with them.

“Who is she?” Fell asks.

“I think she works for a publishing house”, Anathema tells him, then she smiles. “I’m very happy to see you, although I would have preferred to catch up in a different way.” She glances at Crowley, who’s sulking on a chair. “So, are you two…?”

“Is everyone ready? Good”, Gabriel shouts, clapping his hands once, with the artificial enthusiasm of an entertainer in a holiday resort. “Let’s get this started.”

_ 24 December _

By the time Fell’s tea has steeped, the computer has downloaded his emails and he is ready to read them, starting at the bottom and keeping the only one he really cares about for last.

It still takes all his willpower to scroll down to his oldest unread mail and start from there. It’s an exercise in patience, and he is so practised by now that he could teach classes. He deals with the few customer requests, which are becoming an increasingly regular occurrence since he set up a proper business email address (Anathema suggested a website, but he must have made a face, because she said _ Nevermind _ and hurriedly changed the subject), and reads the newsletters he’s subscribed to, jotting down in his agenda an interesting exhibit at the British and a rare books’ sale at that nice bookshop in Curzon Street.

A few clicks and he’s back in the inbox, only to discover that that was the last of his unread emails.

He puts his hands flat on the desk. Steady. The mails have _ always _arrived. Sometimes they are sent very late, yes, and he reads them the day after. He was looking forward to catching up on yesterday’s correspondence, trusting it would be another middle-of-the-night ramble on things like how the Wikipedia article about Japanese stab binding was woefully incomplete, but instead there’s nothing.

What’s he going to do? Nothing rash, that’s for sure. He nods to himself. He needs to be rational about this.

He keeps himself together for another whole hour, before turning off the computer and grabbing his coat and the package wrapped in brown paper he kept on his desk, just in case.

He opens the bookshop’s door and a gust of wind almost knocks it closed again. A few droplets of rain spatter the glass.

“Mmm.” Fell narrows his eyes and he looks down, where his umbrella is propped against the coat rack, and decides to postpone its inevitable demise and leave it at home. He is British: he knows when it’s not the time for umbrellas.

A few minutes later, having switched his coat for a mac and with the package safely tucked under it, he braves his way to the bus stop. It’s not until he’s halfway there that it occurs to him that he could have simply called.

_ Two months ago _

“We have carefully considered every aspect of the situation and we came to the conclusion that some action will be required.”

Everyone in the room is looking at Gabriel, who has been speaking for the last ten minutes, expounding the issue in fastidious detail.

“When you say action, you mean on our part? On _ his _part?” Bee asks, nodding to Crowley.

Steepling his fingers, Gabriel looks directly at them. “The way we see this, we have two alternatives: either our client agrees to Ms Zingiber’s request of an exclusive interview, or we’ll have to regrettably rescind the professional ties that bind us.”

“Speak English”, Bee barks, making Gabriel left eyelid twitch.

The lawyer wets his lips and briefly looks at Michael, who nods. “It means that Highfell & Sons will not be representing Mr Crowley any longer. The risk of a scandal are too high, and our reputation…”

“A _ scandal _”, Crowley spits, uncrossing his legs. It’s the first thing he’s said since the meeting started. “How…”

But Bee shushes him. “Don’t. Let me handle this.” They turn their head to Gabriel. “That’s the problem with you paper pushers, always thinking in the box. Let’s say I have another alternative. A third way.” And they turn their head again.

To Anathema.

Fell’s dearest friend clears her throat, trying not to show how uncomfortable she must feel with everyone in the room suddenly focused on her. She straightens her back and fiddles with a yellow envelope she has kept in her lap, smoothing the paper. There’s a word written on it in black sharpie, but it’s upside down and Fell cannot decipher it. “I found something.” She hesitates.

“Yes?” Michael prods her, more irritated than encouraging.

Fell sees Anathema bristling, and her determination returning. “I found something that could be of use, if… if we wanted that hack to have a taste of her own medicine. Did you know she’s married?”

Gabriel scoffs. “No. Should we send a congratulations card?”

Bee looks daggers at him. “Let her speak.”

Ignoring the interruption, Anathema goes on. “Her partner is the majority shareholder of an energy company. They are ostensibly turning more and more to renewable energy sources, but that’s just propaganda. There is evidence that their plant is heavily polluting a natural reserve in Surrey and that they’re bribing the authorities to look the other way.”

The stunned silence that follows is broken by a new voice. “How did you find this out?” From her expression, it’s clear that the woman who works for the publishing house knows everyone had forgotten about her presence, and that she’s not thrilled about the turn of events that brought her into the spotlight. “What I mean to say is that this sounds like a big story. Big and complicated, something that this company would do anything to hush. How could — and I say this very respectfully, this is not a provocation — how could an ordinary person such as you find _ proof _?”

Looking not at all offended, Anathema smirks. “This is why you never mess with a librarian. Or with her friends. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to research. And I have connections everywhere, including the Surrey Wildlife Trust and the mayor’s office.” 

Gabriel reaches for the envelope, but she takes it out of his reach. Fell can finally read the word written on the envelope. It’s _ WHITE. _

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Can I have a look at those, _ please _?”

“Not until we all agree to pursue this plan.” Anathema turns to Crowley, who shifts in his seat. “I can start pulling strings as soon as today, but you have to understand that there’s no turning back from this.”

“Wait, what exactly _ is _ the plan?” Gabriel asks. “Do you want to expose them?”

But Anathema doesn’t answer. She and Crowley are having a staring contest that neither of them is going to lose very soon.

At last, Bee steps in. “No. We’re going to do the opposite: tell them we know and promise them to bury the story, if they agree to do the same with ours.” They look at Anathema with something closely resembling pride. “A taste of their own medicine.”

“Everything can stay the same”, Michael says, drumming her fingers on the dossier in her lap. “Provided everything works smoothly.”

Bee clicks their tounge. “It will, if you let me handle it. You forget that I have connections, too. Mine are just… less chic.”

Fell looks at Anathema, then at Crowley, puzzled. When Gabriel asked what exactly was he doing at the meeting, Crowley intervened and called him “his emotional support bookseller”, dragging him away. There’s not a lot of support he can offer, right now. He wants to say: _ You cannot be serious. You cannot be actually considering this. _ But he can’t say it, can he? He has to stay neutral, to let Crowley decide for himself. It’s his own life.

“I…” Crowley starts. 

Everyone is hanging off his every word. 

“I… don’t know. I need to think about this.”

The wave of disappointment is almost tangible. Bee’s _ ugh _ reverberates in the living room, while the lawyers shifts in their seats and Anathema is still as a statue. Fell exhales and looks around the room, finding out after who knows how much time that the unnamed publishing house woman is looking straight at him, pondering. He looks away, feeling himself blush.

“Of course.” Gabriel claps his hands again. “I’d say we have exhausted our order of the day, right? Who wants to grab a coffee?”

Bee reaches for their crutches. “I need to take a nap.”

Gabriel hands the crutches to them, hovering helpfully, to Bee’s obvious distaste. “Sure, I’ll give you a ride.”

The publishing house woman is the first to go away, after another short talk with Bee. Meanwhile, Anathema gets up and hugs Fell, who is still sitting. As her hair falls to the side of his face, he hugs her back. Even if he really doesn’t like her plan, he’s grateful to her for going out of her way to help someone he cares about. “Thank you, my dear”, he whispers.

She plants a kiss on his cheek. “Call me as soon as you can, do you hear me?” Then she touches Crowley’s shoulder, but he’s so deep in thought that he doesn’t react.

“Hey, bookshop man.” Bee, who is walking unsteadily towards the exit, stops for a second. “You’d better wait a few more hours, but you can go home. The area’s clear.”

Gabriel looks down at them, alarmed. “What did you do?”

“I’m hurt by the implication that I had anything to do with it. It’s not my fault if city council decided that the sewer system needed fixing, and nobody wants to loiter in the street while the sewer system’s being fixed.” Bee resumes walking towards the door, all dignity and spite, Gabriel in tow, and they both get out without saying goodbye, still bickering. Michael makes eye contact with Fell and nods, before following them and closing the door.

Which leaves Fell and Crowley alone in the flat.

The sudden silence is broken when Crowley exhales and gets up from the chair, going towards the kitchen area. “Well, what do you think?” he asks, with a cheery voice that’s entirely fake. “Do you want tea? I’m making tea.”

Slowly, Fell gets up as well and walks towards the kitchen, where Crowley is currently busy going around opening and closing cabinets like a particularly indecisive hurricane.

“You know I will support your decision, no matter what it is.”

Crowley hesitates, fingers hovering over the kettle for an instant before picking it up. “That’s… that’s not what I asked.” He puts the kettle back down and turns it on, despite it being empty.

With a sigh, Fell goes over and fills it properly. “You must know how I see it.”

“I’d like to hear you say it. Just to make things clearer. For me.” Leaning on the counter behind him, Crowley is finally standing in one place, although his fingers are drumming on the marble.

“How could I possibly feel about blackmail? I cannot be in favour of it. It will bring you at their level, and that would be…” He looks for a word that won’t leave dirty fingerprints between them. “That would be ugly. But.” Fell reaches over and squeezes Crowley’s fingers. “If it’s for your safety. If you feel there’s absolutely no other way. Then I’m with you. I would be with you whatever you choose, just…”

Crowley makes a grimace. “You’d just like me a little less if I merrily went around blackmailing people.” 

Fell tries to protest, but the words die in his mouth when he sees Crowley’s heartbreaking, weak smile. 

“It’s true. You’d like me a little less.” The smile disappears. “But I’d _ hate _myself.”

Relief floods through Fell, even as he tries not to let it show. 

Crowley takes a step forward, leaning into the other man until his forehead rests on Fell’s shoulder. “I may have another plan, one that does not involve blackmail. It’s insane, though.”

He shifts as Fell turns around, kisses his forehead. “Tell me about it.”

“I’ll have to write a book.”

Fell frowns. “You are already writing a book. You’re on deadline, you told me so.”

Crowley’s laugh is entirely devoid of any myrth. “I’ll have to write two books.” 

And then he tells Fell about the plan he has been mulling over since before the meeting started, before he knew he had a way out. The plan that obviously began to form as they were lying together on the couch, yesterday, that probably has its roots into the days they spent together in Sussex, the days Fell fell in love with him.

By the time he’s done, they have moved to the living room and Crowley’s tossed his sunglasses on the coffee table, next to their neglected cups of tea. In hindsight, they should have gone for something stronger. On the other hand, some decisions are better made clear-headed.

Crowley slumps against Fell’s shoulder as if someone cut the ties that kept him upright. “If you tell me I shouldn’t, I’ll think of something else.”

“No, dearest. No. This is what you need to do.”  
“But it would put you in the spotlight, too, and you’ll hate it.”

_ But I love you _ , Fell thinks. _ It doesn’t matter. _

This time, Crowley doesn’t read his mind. “You have to think about the consequences. You can’t forget what the real world is like.”

Fell reaches for Crowley’s hand, holds it. “This is real enough for me.”

Instead of replying, Crowley kisses his fingers, like he’s become fond of doing. “And… there’s another thing. You’re not going to like this part.”

Fell cannot suppress a sigh and a wan smile. “Try me.”

“I’ll have to be alone for this.” Crowley pulls back to look at him. “I need to focus on this thing. We can use Anathema’s files to stall for a bit, but it needs to be done as soon as possible.” Another kiss on his hand. “And I’m afraid you’re very distracting.”

“I see.” Fell nods. “I meant it, what I said before. I’m with you, whatever you need to do. If you need to be alone, I’ll leave you alone. Just…” He shifts, looking for the best way to ask Crowley for what he needs. It’s something he really needs to get better at doing, he fears.

“Tell me.”

“Could you… write to me? I’ll set up a proper email. I’ll give the address to you. Write me a line, when you’re free, just to let me know you’re okay.”

Crowley cups his face with his free hand. “I’ll write to you every day. I promise.” He gets closer, until they share breath. “Thank you.”

“Of course”, Fell murmurs, closing the distance.

_ An interlude _

**Inbox**

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: I’m alive

_ 24 Oct, 20:27 _

_ Hi, angel. Doing fine. A lot of words, today, some of them even good. Hope you’re okay. Thank you again for agreeing to this. I know I’m terrible, but joke’s on you, you’re the one who likes me, not the other way ’round. _

_ Good night, angel. _

_ c _

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: Still alive

_ 29 Oct, 23:58 _

_ Sorry, I know it’s late, lost track of time. Today was ok. Miss you. _

_ c _

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: this is insane

_ 1 Nov, 21:02 _

_ how could you let me do this? no i know it was my idea. still you should run while you can. also you’re gorgeous. _

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: I have so many questions

_ 7 Nov, 17:58 _

_ For instance, do you know if ducks have ears? They must have, that’s how they hear other ducks. This is what I, an award-winning novelist, have to deal with. Luckily, I have memories of my past life to keep me sane, like when a dashing bookseller got me drunk on a beach and then asked me to kiss him. _

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: First draft done!!!

_ 15 Nov, 05:45 _

_ I am the proud father of what is either the best novel I’ve ever written or utter trash. My editor will tell me which one when I’ll send her the file, which was due in precisely two hours and fifteen minutes. I met a deadline, baby B) _

_ Yours truly, _

_ A very professional and overall responsible writer _

_ c _

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: words are hard

_ 1 Dec, 00:34 _

_ not a good day today. tomorrow will be better. another day closer _

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: why people?

_ 18 Dec, 15:40 _

_ just _

_ why? _

_ i need to take a break from this but i cant but i have to. bee’s cast is off and theyre coming over and they will be very mad at me. _

**From**: aj.crowley@mymail.com

**To**: az.fell.and.co@booknetwork.com

**Subject**: still alive

_ 22 Dec, 22:38 _

_ see subject. _

_ love, c _

_ 24 December _

Trying to take a bus late on Christmas Eve during a downpour is not something he sees himself doing again soon, Fell muses as he stands outside Crowley’s flat later that evening, rain dripping from his mac on the floor.

He had to wait for almost half an hour under the bus shelter, which didn’t offer an even remotely adequate protection against the rain that the wind kept throwing in his direction. It got colder and colder. But he made it, and now he’s seriously considering going back and pretending he was never here.

Because there’s music blasting from inside the flat, so there’s definitely someone home. Is Crowley having a party? Has Fell got everything wrong, again?

As he is meditating over what to do (would it be overdramatic to ring the bell, leave the package on the doormat and then leave?), a voice shouts something unintelligible. It’s not Crowley’s: Fell could identify it in a lineup. 

Good Lord, why didn’t he call?

He is still making up his mind when the door opens and a young man shuts up mid-sentence (he was saying something Fell’s mind had not the wherewithal to understand) and stops abruptly on his way out. 

During this standstill, Fell notices a few things: the man is taller than him, about Crowley’s height, but without his spindly restlessness. He has a mop of curly brown hair and big, honest blue eyes. Most of all, he has a _ presence _ about him, a sense of solidity. It’s quite weird, but he appears more solid than his surroundings, as if his gravity pull was stronger than it should be.

Under his open coat, he is wearing a dark blue CERN t-shirt, and the final piece of the puzzle slots into place. “Oh, you must be Adam.” 

At the same time, the young man smiles and says: “Mr Fell, I guess”.

So, Crowley’s been talking about him to his research assistant. Speaking of the owner of the flat, he isn’t in sight. “Is Crowley home?”

Adam makes a grimace. “Yeah. Bee’s here too, but I bet you can convince them to leave you alone. They’re not exactly helping. Ouch!”

“The nerve of the youth.” Adam moves, revealing Bee behind him, lowering the hand with which they just clouted Adam on the back of the head. “I brought him food, or he would starve.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose”, tries Fell, wondering who else will he find in the apartment.

“I was on my way out anyway.” Sure enough, Bee has their coat on and the look of someone who’d rather be anywhere else. Even if, to be fair, that could just be their usual expression. They push their way past the two men, saying over their shoulder: “You better hurry if you want a lift home, Young”.

Hurriedly, Adam extends a hand for Fell to shake. “Good luck”, he says, instead of goodbye. “And merry Christmas, if that’s something you’re into.”

“You, too”, Fell replies automatically. He has no time to collect himself before someone inside the apartment turns the music even higher, compelling him to step in.

The preternatural tidiness he found the first time he visited Crowley’s apartment is gone. Books, magazines, cups, empty takeaway containers and an assortment of more or less unlikely things are scattered on every surface. A few dark sweaters are thrown on the back of the couch, as if someone discarded them, forgot they did it and picked a clean one from the wardrobe, repeating this cycle a few times. 

As he gets his bearings, Fell puts the package on the entry table — there’s barely room for it, between piles of books, more dirty cups and who knows what those crumpled papers are — and takes off his mac, giving it a good shake on the mat before closing the door. 

That’s when Crowley appears, glancing towards him on his way from the living room to the kitchen and freezing like a statue. He is wearing something Fell hasn’t yet seen, a black, sleek dressing gown, and he’s chewing on the end of a pencil, his hair half up and half down.

Not sure if he ought to be more understanding or reproachful, Fell shakes his head and points at his ear. 

The hurry with which Crowley recovers from the surprise and rushes back to the living room in a flurry of black fabric is quite endearing. A moment later, the volume is brought down from blaring to fit for human ears, and Crowley reappears, sans pencil and with his hair even wilder than before. 

Fell has not moved yet. “Can I come in?” he asks.

“You’re here”, Crowley says at the same time. 

Fell takes a close look at him, noticing the bags under his eyes, trying to guess if the dressing gown is deceptively slimming or if he’s really lost weight. “I just wanted to check in on you. You didn’t… write.”

Crowley brings a hand to his forehead. “Oh, fuck, what time is it?” He looks towards the kitchen, where some appliance must have a digital clock, and makes a face. “Fuck, shit, sorry. People were over and I lost track of time.”

So, that’s it. A perfectly ordinary reason. “I’m glad we sorted that out. I’ll leave you be, now, if you need to keep on…”

But, before he can say _ working _, Crowley takes a few steps closer. “No, stay, please.” Then, ashamed of his own eagerness, he rolls his eyes. “If you don’t have anything better to do.”

“Well, it’s Christmas Eve…”

“Shit, right. Sure, you have somewhere to be.”

Fell blinks. “I don’t. I was assuming _ you _ had plans.”

“I did, they cut bait a moment ago.” Crowley shrugs in a poor attempt at indifference. “So my schedule is clear. You’ve already eaten, yes?”

Fell had been meaning to have a light dinner after checking his inbox, as he usually does. And the walk in the park meant he did forego his usual tea. Now that he pays attention to it, he is, in fact, quite hungry. “I haven’t, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, all right. I’m pretty sure I can put together something. Bee just came around to bring me some food.”

Fell follows him to the kitchen. “That’s nice of them.”

“Try ‘part of the job description’. And they make it very clear how much of a burden it is for them.” 

There’s a couple of white grocery bags balanced precariously on the corner of the counter, pushed against piles of dirty dishes and empty boxes of frozen food. Crowley clears a small surface by piling the plates even higher. “Uhm, sorry for the mess?”

Fell shakes his head. “How long have you been inside?”

As he pulls a few deli boxes from one of the bags, Crowley scrunches up his nose, pensive.

That’s worse than Fell thought. “Did you even go running, all these weeks?”

Crowley’s expression — half guilty, half apologetic, which tells Fell all he needs to know — becomes alarmed when Fell gently grabs his wrist.

“My dear boy, you need a break.”

After they take stock of what Bee’s brought — all they have to do is heat up what they plan to eat and freeze the rest, so at least they won’t have to cook anything — Fell sends Crowley to take a shower and starts cleaning the kitchen. He fills both a garbage bag and the dishwasher to the brim. The situation feels more and more manageable as order is restored. Tidying up has always been relaxing for Fell; he ought to try it more often. But there are so many more interesting things to do, and what’s the point of trying to organise his flat if he spends all his time in the bookshop anyway? Or the shop itself, for that matter, since he knows exactly where everything is?

All the while, the music coming from the living room goes on, one song after the other, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. Fell is aligning the kitchen stools around the isle when Crowley comes out of the bathroom, singing quietly along to the lyrics, and it is very nice. It becomes entirely something else when the man sees him in the kitchen area and, without haste, goes to him and hugs him from behind, sliding his arms under Fell’s and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“You’re so soft”, Crowley says, relaxing against him like he’s reached the shore after a shipwreck. His damp hair is leaving a wet spot on Fell’s clothes, but he couldn’t care less. 

Fell covers Crowley’s hands on his stomach with his own. “And you are very tired.”

“Mmm-mmm.”

“Let’s eat something, come on.”

The hot shower, and maybe something in Fell’s presence, have seemed to quell the nervous energy that has apparently run through Crowley for most of these past few weeks. Fell got an impression of it through the emails, and he’s seen it firsthand tonight. He suspects that the only sleep Crowley’s had was when he reached a point of exhaustion. He asks himself if he should have come sooner, instead of filling his days with…

He stops himself before he can think anything uncharitable. He filled his days with friends and children and hobbies and things that, even if they didn’t make him properly happy, were meaningful in their own rights. There are worse ways to cope with the loss of something whose importance you just realised.

Well, no point dwelling on the past, anyway. He’s here, now, in a tidy, warm kitchen, _ at the still point of the turning world _, with a Crowley who’s barely able to finish his portions of deli lasagna without falling asleep, watching him and trying to make sense of the way the love he feels for him grows and spreads and spills out, becoming an entity unto itself.

He takes Crowley to bed before he falls off the kitchen stool, noticing with relief that his plants are as luscious and green as ever. He tucks him in the unmade bed and spreads the duvet and a few blankets to cover him evenly. It’s only when everything’s still, except for Crowley quietly breathing in his sleep, that Fell notices he cannot hear the rain anymore. Then he turns towards the bedroom window and every half-formed, uncertain thought about going back home dies happily.

A flurry of snowflakes, slightly orange in the city lights, is silently falling on the other side of the glass. Fell doesn’t know when it started, but looking down he sees that the pavements and the trees are already covered in a light layer of powdery white snow.

It seems he will stay the night. That’s the sensible thing to do. 

The package he brought is still on the entry table, safely wrapped in its brown paper. He will give it to Crowley tomorrow. It will be Christmas morning, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;  
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is._  
T.S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton", _The Four Quartets_
> 
> My writing time will be split between the next chapter and my fic for the [Good Omens Rom Com Event](https://goromcom.tumblr.com/), which I'm very excited about! Hope to see you all there.


	9. An Absence of Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, I've chosen to condense the last two chapters into one, as it made more sense for the story. So, here's the last chapter of this fic.  
I really hope you enjoy it. See you on the other side.

For the first time in two months, Fell doesn’t wake up alone.

It’s the early morning and it’s quiet, dark. There’s an arm on his stomach, a leg entwined with his. A light, deep breathing that is not his own. Without opening his eyes, Fell lets his fingers brush a few strands of hair away from the other man’s forehead. He remembers thinking, yesterday evening, how much that hair has grown in two months.

He lets his hand slide down a shoulder, along a ribcage, follow the curve of a slim hip. He is hesitant, delicate: he doesn’t want to wake him up yet. But Crowley is sleeping the sleep of the dead, he is sleeping away two months of endless work and exhaustion.

Suddenly aching to do something (anything), Fell extricates himself from the tangle of limbs and gets up in the near darkness.

He finds his way to the greenhouse, where there aren’t any shutters and a milky light is pouring in from outside. From what he can see, the snow has stopped. He makes his way to the living room, where he is greeted by the same mess from yesterday. He sighs. He wanted to make breakfast, but maybe it’s better if he first…

A sudden buzzing noise breaks the silence, like angry wasps trapped in a jar. Fell casts an alarmed look around and finally pinpoints the horrible noise down to Crowley’s cell phone vibrating on the kitchen counter.

The name  _ bee _ (spelled without capitalization) is on the display. Fell considers pretending not to notice, but then something occurs to him and he decides to answer.

(Deciding to answer and actually doing it are two separate things, but he figures it out, eventually.)

“Hello, this is Fell.” He keeps his voice down and, when there’s no immediate answer, he glances at the screen. 

Then: “Oh, gimme a break”.

He smiles. “Good morning to you too, Bee.”

Another silence, this time punctuated by what could be a grinding of teeth. “He’s sleeping, then?”

“Like a log.”

“Huh.” It’s hard to say, but there seems to be a bit of begrudging approval in that sound. “Better to let him rest, then. He can take a day off.”

“Yes, well, about that. I have a favour to ask you.”

By the time Bee knocks on the door, he is dressed and has fixed himself a nice cup of tea. He’s fully awake and ready to take action.

He opens the door and smiles again at the sight of the black smudge of a person in front of him. He lets them in, ignoring the caustic look in their eyes. “Thanks for coming. Hope the snow didn’t cause any trouble along the way.”

“Yeah, whatever.” They look at the mess and sniff. “It looks even worse in the light of day.”

Fell grimaces. “I know. I really appreciate you coming here.”

Bee’s scowl could melt metal if it was accidentally spilled on it. “This is not how I was planning to spend Christmas morning. But I guess eating yesterday’s leftovers in front of the telly is just as pathetic. Let’s get to it.”

If it was only up to him, Fell wouldn’t have been daunted by the prospect of tidying up alone. As he had anticipated, though, Bee knows the flat like the back of their hand, and more importantly has worked with Crowley long enough to judge whether a sheet of paper covered in doodles is valuable or can be trashed. 

The owner of the flat sleeps through the couple of hours it takes them to clean up the living room. When they’re done, Fell makes himself another cuppa and asks Bee if they want one, even if he already knows they will decline.

Nevertheless, they follow him in the kitchen, leaning against the isle, maybe considering whether sitting down on a stool could detract from their unfriendliness. “So.” 

Fell, who was half-hoping, half-dreading a conversation, keeps himself busy with the kettle and doesn’t turn.

“You’re staying.”

They’re not talking about him staying the night, or his plans for today. Not just that. “Yes.” He opens Crowley’s tea cupboard and takes a tin out of it. “I’m not going anywhere. If he wants me.”

Bee makes a nauseated sound. “Oh, spare me, please. He’s disgustingly in love with you.”

Dried tea leaves spill out of the infuser Fell is filling and on the counter.

Bee goes on. “I’m not saying that’s good for him. It makes him reckless.”

“He’s an adult. He makes his own decisions.” He collects the spilled leaves and carefully closes the infuser’s clasp. “I am very much in love with him, too.”

The groan he gets in response is predictable and half-hearted. “I really don’t need to know these things.”

Fell finds himself disagreeing. “He seems to be under the impression that your relationship with him is purely professional. That you don’t really care about him. I don’t think he actually believes it, but he certainly fears it.”

With another disgusted noise, Bee looks away. “He is so dumb. He’s like a puppy. Makes me want to kick him, sometimes.”

“And you obviously care, since you’re here on Christmas morning, giving me the  _ talk _ .”

“I haven’t given anyone any  _ talk _ .” Bee’s tone is outraged.

“Well, my mistake, then.” Fell opens the dishwasher and picks up a clean mug. There’s no need to add anything. He trusts Bee to be smart enough to understand.

There’s a protracted silence, then Fell finally turns around and sees Bee looking at him with narrowed eyes and a contemplative expression. “If you hurt him, I’ll cut your balls and nail them to the door.”

Fell bites his lips to keep himself from smiling. He  _ knew  _ it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After Bee has gone home (presumably to eat leftovers in peace, as per their original plan), Fell finishes his tea and looks at the time. If he did the math correctly, Crowley has been sleeping for almost ten hours.

He puts his empty mug in the sink and opens the fridge, finding a box of eggs and an open carton of milk. A cautious sniff at the latter sends it pouring down the sink, while the eggs still seem edible.

He is now sufficiently acquainted with the trappings of Crowley’s kitchen to make some decent scrambled eggs. As he’s looking in the cupboards for plates, he finds a tray where he puts the eggs, cutlery and a cup of tea. He has a feeling Crowley would appreciate coffee, but the coffee machine is still beyond his understanding. One thing at a time.

The man’s still asleep, but he stirs when Fell pulls up the shades and then sits on the bed beside him, moving the hair that’s fallen back on Crowley’s forehead out of the way so he can kiss it.

The sound that comes from the depths of Crowley’s throat is hoarse and surprised. He sniffs once, eyes still closed. “Eggs?”

“Precisely.”

His eyes open, then, and he blinks a few times as he tries to focus on Fell’s face. “Eggs.”

“Good morning to you too, my dear.”

After Crowley has rubbed the sleep from his eyes and put on his glasses, Fell makes him scoot over and sit on the covers. They have breakfast side by side, and as Crowley’s state of awakeness improves they chat a bit, about inconsequential and unimportant things ( _ “I can’t believe you stayed over because it was Christmas Eve and it was snowing. What a cliché” _ ).

“Oh, there’s something I… I have something for you.” Fell was aiming for spontaneous but missed the mark by quite a long shot. He feels his face become worryingly warm. He ignores it and bends over to pick up something from the floor. “Uhm, here.”

Speechless, Crowley takes the brown package Fell gives him. It looks even more unassuming in his hands. Crowley’s colours are so much more saturated — his amber eyes, now so wide, his flaming hair. “What… what’s this?”

“You’re supposed to open it and find out, I think.”

Crowley recovers enough to pick at the clear tape keeping the envelope together. When the paper falls open, he holds something wrapped in fabric. He strokes the fabric with his fingertips, almost reverently, then he pulls it apart to see what’s inside.

Fell can’t help himself. “I know it’s not much. I just thought… After what you told me about your godson, well. I thought about it, and then placed an order. For books. Obviously.” He watches Crowley reading the titles of the books in his hands, looking at the back covers. He still hasn’t said anything and Fell  _ has  _ to fill in the silence, or he’ll die of embarrassment. “These are some of them. For young readers, you see. I looked them up on the Internet and asked the kids’ opinion. You know, from the book club.”

Crowley is still not looking at him. “You have queer young adult fiction in your bookshop.”

Fell thinks about the row of colourful spines and quirky titles on the shelf right beside the entrance. He thought they’d look out of place, but for some reason they don’t. Not in a way he doesn’t like, anyway. “A… a little corner, yes. I had to reorganise a bit, but…”

He has to stop, because Crowley has dropped the books and is pulling him in for a kiss. It starts with so much pressure that Fell can’t feel his lips, then turns into something more tender and desperate at the same time. He puts his hands on Crowley’s, trying to say  _ I’m here, I’m here _ without words.

When they pull apart, Crowley keeps him close, doesn’t let him go. “You…”

Fell clears his throat. “There’s also…” He gently lowers Crowley’s hands and takes the piece of fabric that enveloped the books. “I, uhm, took up a few hobbies while we were… Well. While we didn’t see each other. This was one of my first attempts, but I’m not… What I want to say is that, if you don’t like it, I understand.” 

While he’s talking, Crowley grabs and unfolds the thing. It’s not a simple piece of fabric, but a patchwork of silken offcuts in different black and dark grey patterns interspersed with floral squares. They’re sewn together to form a large triangle, hemmed on two sides with a heavy black fringe. Crowley doesn’t say anything, but his cheeks turn a violent red.

When Crowley looks at him, he shrugs and tries to smile. “It’s your colour.”

Crowley takes a deep breath. “I don’t… I got nothing for you. You made  _ this _ and I have nothing to give you back.”

_ He’s disgustingly in love with you. _ Bee’s words from earlier echo in Fell’s mind. “Don’t be an idiot.”

And then Crowley is kissing him again, and again, and Fell topples over and pins him on the bed, and Crowley’s hands and mouth make it very clear that he doesn’t want him to move away anytime soon. And that’s perfectly all right with Fell.

Clever fingers starts unbuttoning his shirt. “No bowtie this morning, Mr Fell?” Crowley teases, but his mocking tone is tempered by the fact that he sounds out of breath. He leaves a trail of kisses on his neck and clavicle. “Are you sure our acquaintanceship has gone on long enough to forego such formalities?”

“You… talk too much”, says Fell, when he feels he can speak again.

“And you have far too many clothes on you.” Crowley pulls at his shirt and Fell helps taking it off. He grabs a handful of Fell’s undershirt and then stops. “Do you want…”

“Yes.”

Fell’s complete lack of hesitation does something interesting to Crowley’s face. His expression finally settles on incredulous. “Are you sure you…”

“Yes.” Fell hasn’t been so sure of anything in his entire life. He’s never felt like this before — so completely devoid of doubt or hesitation. “I want you. I want this.”

Crowley looks at him with  _ those  _ eyes, and Fell can’t do anything but kiss him, pressing him into the mattress, which Crowley doesn’t seem to mind at all.

Then Crowley startles and groans, making them both shift. He reaches and pulls a books from under his back. “One of your books just stabbed me.”

Fell rolls his eyes. “Move over.”

They take everything that doesn’t belong in the bed and they put it on the nightstand or on the floor. Fell takes advantage of the situation to get rid of more clothes, and Crowley does the same. When Fell sits back on the sheets, Crowley strokes his arm, making the downy, fair hair stand up.

“Can I look at you?”

And it’s not that Fell has dreaded this moment since the beginning. It’s not.  _ Dread _ is not the right word. For a start, there are a lot of things that make him feel worse about himself than his less than remarkable physique, and for some reason Crowley accepts them — no, he  _ likes  _ them. But still.

He glances back at Crowley, and there’s that look again. Something warm in his eyes. Fell takes a deep breath and takes off his undershirt. Here he is, sitting on Crowley’s unmade bed, feeling more naked than he’s ever been in his life.

This sensation is increased by the way Crowley furrows his brow while he looks at him. He  _ really _ looks at him. The sudden urge to break the silence takes over. “I know, I’m not very… Uhm.”

“You are.” Crowley looks up. “Don’t believe me?” He takes his hand and puts it on his chest.

Under his fingers, his mortifyingly damp palm, Fell can feel Crowley’s heart beating furiously. Almost as much as his own. He looks at where they touch, skin over skin, and then further down…

Crowley sees him blushing and looks down too, to the hard ridge that’s clearly visible under his underwear. “Ah, yes. Should have led with that. It’s probably more convincing.”

This startles a weak laugh out of Fell, a laugh that ends in Crowley’s lips when he reaches over and kisses him, slipping a hand on the back of his neck to keep him still. Every point of contact is suddenly electric and Fell can’t get enough of it, the feeling of Crowley’s skin against his own.

Crowley pulls away, licking his lips tentatively. “Would you like to lie down?”

Fell settles against the cushions and puts his palms on Crowley’s thighs when he straddles him. They never break eye contact, they barely blink. They close their eyes only when Crowley bends down for another kiss.

The fact that Crowley’s trembling too reassures Fell in some measure.

“I have been thinking about this for two months. I told you you were distracting. You have no idea.”

Shaken by a wave of pure longing, Fell lifts his hips. It’s nothing, but it makes Crowley gasp all the same. “I may have. Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

“You, under me, like this.” Crowley licks his lips again. The blush has travelled down his neck, on his torso. He’s almost blushing with his whole body, and Fell wants to touch every inch of his lovely, overly emotional skin. “You, inside me. That is, if you want, we can do whatever…”

“I would like that”, Fell interrupts him. “Very much.” For some reason, that’s not hard to say, not at all. It’s the truth.

Crowley exhales from his nose and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Fell’s. Strands of red hair fall on his face, and Fell brushes them behind Crowley’s ears, stroking his warm cheeks as he does so.

Is this the right moment to tell him that he loves him? Is there a right moment to tell someone that the love you feel for them makes your heart beat in a different way than before?

He says nothing as Crowley turns to kiss his left hand, and then hooks his fingers on Fell’s underwear. Fell lifts his hips to help him getting rid of this last layer, and then it’s Crowley’s turn.

He has seen various parts of Crowley’s body at different moments in time, and has done  _ things _ to a few of them. But he is somewhat unprepared for the sight of the other man’s naked body, and for the effect it has on his own, equally naked.  _ This is interesting _ , he thinks.

Let’s just say that, if someone in that room harboured even the tiniest doubt that Fell was absolutely, tragically, unavoidably attracted to Crowley, it would have evaporated in that moment.

Crowley looks at him for a long, quiet moment, then he seems to shake himself awake and reaches for the nightstand drawer, taking out a bottle and a box. When he speaks, he sounds as breathless as he looks. “Uhm… You’ve already…” 

Words. Voice. Yes. He remembers how they work. “I may lack experience, but I know the theory.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, but he’s unable to keep himself from smiling. “Excuse me for forgetting you know everything.”

As Crowley straddles him again, Fell gently strokes his thighs, his hips, the sides of his abdomen, silently marvelling at how perfect it is and asking himself if he’ll ever get used to this. He aches to find out. “You know how much I read.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There's an author in particular who writes very explicit content.”

“And you like them?”

“She’s my favourite.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “I thought you said I was.”

“You are.”

“Come here.” With a hand on the back of Fell’s neck, Crowley bends down. They are kissing as if their lives depended on it, their bodies pressing against each other, shifting with slow, languid motions.  _ I know you _ , it’s what they say.  _ I see you. I know you. _ Over and over again.

When it becomes too much, there’s a short and to-the-point conversation. Fell finds his fingers slicked and he’s about to ask Crowley what he should do, but the words that come out of his mouth are different. “Tell me what you like.”

If the hitch in Crowley’s breath is something to judge by, that was the right thing to say. He takes Fell’s wrist and moves his hand just so. “Start with one.”

Fell does. His finger slips in easily, with the slightest, lovely resistance. Crowley’s hiss and the flutter of his eyelids are so gratifying that Fell pushes in a little more. He puts his free hand on Crowley’s thigh, to steady them both. “Too much?”

“No.” Crowley closes his eyes. “Move, please.” The groan that escapes from his throat when Fell slides his finger out, and then in again, is indecent.

“This should be illegal.” Oh. Apparently his filters don't work very well in situations like this. The breathless, surprised chuckle his comment causes, though, prompts him to add: “You are positively…”

Crowley’s hips stutter. “Yes, angel?”

“Indecent.” Fell takes one of Crowley’s hands and brings it to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “Lovely. You’re so good…” He hesitates, then parts his lips and bites the tip of Crowley’s middle finger, only the slightest pressure, feeling the soft pad under his teeth, the light salinity of his skin.

Another gasp, a  _ very _ interesting one. “A-another finger, angel, please. Don't stop.”

Fell obeys. He’s avoided looking at Crowley's body, so far, because he fears it will undo him, and he wants to make this last as long as he can. He closes his eyes as Crowley brushes his lips with his fingertips.

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

Well. In for a penny… “I want to look at you. But, uhm… I’m afraid the show will be over much too soon, if I do.”

“Oh.” A whisper. “I don’t care. Please, look at me. Look at what you’re doing to me.”

Fell does. A light sheen of sweat is making Crowley’s body shine in the pearly light. His chest and abdomen are in high resolution. A dusting of sparse, fair red hair covers the upper part of his torso, growing thicker between his legs. Fell crooks his fingers inside him, making Crowley’s entire body shiver and his hard, red cock twitch.

“I… can’t… I need you now. Please?”

Something clenches in Fell’s chest, and elsewhere. “Are you sure?”

Crowley has straightened his back and is already fumbling with the condom envelope. “Never been so sure in my entire fucking life. Can I? Put it on you?”

“Oh, God, no.” Fell didn’t mean to speak with such vehemence, so he explains: “If you touch me, I won’t… Let me do it, this time”.

_ This time.  _ It’s deliberate. He hopes Crowley can tell, that he can feel the implication sit comfortably between them, too.

For a moment he regrets dismissing Crowley’s help, because he’s never actually done what he’s about to do. He fears he’ll fall prey to his usual first-time jitters and all. But everything goes smoothly, in the end, and then Crowley is over him again, looking at him the way he does when Fell says something that really grabs his attention.

“Still want to do this, yes?” 

Fell cuffs his arm, gently. “Do I need to answer?”

“Just checking in.” And then he’s there, and he starts lowering himself, and every remaining scrap of banter Fell has in him fizzles out as his mind and senses focus on one point, one sensation.

He finds himself holding onto Crowley’s hips, steadying him, as he himself keeps completely still. (And he feared he wouldn’t last long  _ before _ …) He also feels like he’s going to cry, but it’s not ugly or sad. More like something Stendhal would understand.

He is completely inside Crowley, now. When the other man’s hips move — a fraction of an inch, something a seismograph would barely register — a mortifying noise escapes Fell’s throat.

Crowley’s gasp is delighted. “Oh, God, please, do that again.” 

“I won’t.” But Fell is betrayed by his own body: his hands are still gripping Crowley’s hips and they make him shift  _ just so… _

Crowley laughs. “Thank you, angel.”

“I’m not… far”, says Fell. He’s been keeping himself from falling apart for an eternity, or what feels like it.

Crowley nods, then he bends down to kiss him. His own cock is trapped between their bellies, and when he moves, the friction makes the both of them gasp.

The orgasm is not unexpected at all, but it still sweeps over Fell, knocking the air out of his lungs. As he comes, he reaches between them to give Crowley something more firm to move against, and also he wants to  _ feel _ it, to touch him as he comes, to be the one who makes it happen.

It goes on for a while. 

Afterwards, there are more kisses, and heartbeats slowly returning to normal, a towel soaked in warm water and both of them on the dry side of the bed, skin on naked skin under the covers.

“So, you’ve been keeping yourself busy, too, I understand.” Eyes closed, Crowley is laying with his head on Fell’s soft chest, an arm and a leg draped over the other man’s body. Fell is stroking his shoulder with his knuckles.

In the quiet, warm Christmas morning, Fell tells him about everything he’s done since the end of October, and Crowley fills in the gaps left by his emails. They talk about Bee behaving like a debutante’s father, about Fell being more and more at ease with children and teenagers.

They talk about Crowley’s book.

“I wanted to ask you…” Crowley hesitates, then tilts his head until he’s looking at Fell. “Would you like to read it? When it’s done? I’d like it very much if you would. Before anyone else.”

Fell tries to hide how much this question means to him. “Surely, your editor…”

“She doesn’t know what I’m writing.” Crowley shrugs, but his hands are shaking. “They have the novel they were waiting for. If they don’t want this one, I’ll publish it myself. I don’t care, I just want the truth to be out there, on my terms.”

The meaning of these last few words sinks in slowly. After the recent, well…  _ exertions _ , both his body and his mind feel relaxed like never before.

He knew that, of course. He knew the details of Crowley’s plan, the ones he’d shared after the meeting, two months ago. But it’s quite different to be presented with the actual thing after it’s done. “How far along are you with the writing?” 

“Not much left. It’s hard not to procrastinate, because when it’s done… I’ll have to get ready for the next step.” With a sigh, Crowley stretches. He takes his time, arms going up over his head, his entire body pressing on Fell’s. “I just wish there was a way to do it without consequences.”

Fell is about to reassure him that they’ll be all right, but obviously there’s so much more at stake. “What are you worried about?”

“Adam.” The answer is immediate. “It could easily ruin his career. He said he’s okay with it, that I should do it, but…” Crowley shakes his head against Fell’s chest. “You don’t know how things can get nasty in academia.”

Lost in thought, Fell runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, gently smoothing out the knots. “ _ He  _ knows it.”

“Mmm. He’s young and idealistic. And then there’s Warlock.”

“You know he’ll never think any worse of you for this.”

“Still.” Crowley sighs again, moving so that Fell’s finger can reach the back of his head. “I wish there was a way to test it. A… a focus group. Something small and safe.”

Fell knows that Crowley’s just voicing what he considers wishful thinking, but two of the words he used —  _ group _ ,  _ safe _ — plant themselves in his mind and refuse to leave. 

He lets the idea sit for a while, developing, and when he finds no exceptional faults in it, he clears his throat. “I may have a suggestion.”

The light entering from the bookshop’s front windows this Sunday afternoon is pale, but it warms the room in a very pleasant way. As Fell observes, the kids and Anathema take their seats, chatting and laughing and leafing through the books they’ve pulled off the shelves. He loosens his bowtie, just a fraction. His neck is damp with sweat, and he thinks about ditching the blasted thing altogether, but he needs it to keep himself together. He needs some armour, today.

In the backroom, unbeknownst to everyone else except Fell, Crowley is pacing back and forth, picking up stray books and putting them on random shelves. Crowley doesn’t even notice he’s organising them by height, spines perfectly aligned. Since this is Fell’s private collection — half storage, half his own property — and Crowley’s not messing with the shop’s arbitrary, idiosyncratic cataloguing system, Fell doesn’t rush in to stop him.

He clears his voice instead, alerting Crowley of his presence before entering the room.

The man’s all angles and worry. “I don’t think I can do it.” His tone is casual, like he’s telling him that he can’t make it to dinner tonight, unfortunately, something’s come up, sorry, and can they have a rain check?

Hands clasped, Fell smiles gently. “That’s perfectly fine.” He keeps his voice down, both to be comforting and to make sure nobody hears them talking. “Nobody knows you’re supposed to be here, so no-one’ll be disappointed. You can use the backdoor, if you want.”

Crowley’s tilts his head with a reproachful glance, as if he knows exactly what Fell’s doing.

He keeps his poker face on. “Or you can say hello to everyone and sit in the back, listen to the conversation. We’re supposed to talk about one of your books, after all. You may even find it fun. Interesting, at the very least.”

After Crowley hesitantly agreed to his plan, and they talked it out some more, Fell contacted Lori and lifted his veto on Madame Ashtoreth’s novels for the book club. As the self-proclaimed expert in the subject, being in the middle of writing her dissertation on the novelist and all, the next day Lori had already chosen a handful of the author’s more representative work, but refrained to cast her vote in the ballot, stepping in only to break a tie. Her attitude is part enthusiasm and part ruthless determination.

Crowley tightens the shawl around his shoulders. It’s the one Fell made him. He’s never worn it outside the house before. It pairs really well with the dark grey turtleneck and the soft, black velvet skirt he’s chosen, so long it almost pools at his feet.

Fell thinks about armours and realises that, with the possible exception of the dark glasses, Crowley isn’t wearing one today. That’s why he’s so shaken. This is not an alter ego — neither of them, the debonair science author or the enigmatic novelist. This is just… him.

“It’s just that…” With a weak laugh, Crowley takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. Fell lets him do it, something clenching in his chest as he sees how bloodshot they are, the deep shadows underneath. “They’re all tangled together. The good and the bad things. This wasn’t about her. Madame, I mean. But sometimes it is. Sometimes I feel like I’m still mourning her. Even after all these years. Isn’t it stupid?” He lets out a shaky breath, putting his glasses back on. “At first it was… I don’t know, a way to keep her alive. But also vengeance. Retribution. Then I got so used to it that it became its own thing, you know?”

Fell can’t really say he understands. Not all of it. But he knows Crowley has to say it, so he listens. Gently, as if they could break if he’s not careful, Fell takes his hands. They are clammy and cold, and he covers them, trying to warm them. “What are you scared of?”

Crowley looks at their joined hands. A long moment passes before he speaks again. “Sometimes I hope nobody cares. And at the same time this prospect is terrifying. I’m the only one who knows exactly what Madame Ashtoreth really means, and now I’m letting the world know.” He tilts his head, a bit of spirit returning to him. “Well, like, nine people, today, but tomorrow there will be more, and the day after, and the day after that…”

“It’s okay.” And Fell thinks very hard about his next words. Will he be so bold? Is it terrible advice? “You can let her go.”

In that very moment, somebody knocks on the open door of the back room. “Hey, we’re ready to… Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were here too, Crowley.” Anathema looks at him from head to toe. “You look wonderful, by the way. I… Wow. Okay. I’ll leave you to it. Later.”

After she’s gone away, looking a little staggered, Crowley looks at himself and frowns. “Do you think it’s too much?”

Fell laughs. “It’s perfect. I had never seen Anathema speechless before.”

Crowley shrugs, getting his shawl all lopsided. Fell lets go of his hands to fix it for him. “Well, angel. Let’s do it, then.”

They didn’t  _ rehearse _ it, not properly. There have been conversations, sure. But, as Fell faces the small crowd before him, he suddenly feels entirely unprepared. 

He thinks back to another day, not so long ago, the first time he gathered a small crowd of people in his shop, when he sat there listening to a man he didn’t yet love (not the way he does now, at least) and wondering exactly how and when he put his foot in his mouth. No, it wasn’t so long ago, but it feels like years. Like another life, led by someone else, someone who loved peaceful, silent, lonely days and was loved by no-one in return.

(As he’s thinking this, Fell sees Anathema smiling at him with something inexplicably like pride. No, not ‘no-one’, that’s a bit overdramatic, isn’t it?

But the point still stands.)

He clears his voice. “I hope you don't mind a slight change of plan.”

Her blue hair piled on top of her head, Tara narrows her eyes. “I’m not having this discussion again. We’ve gone through the Hunger Games to pick the book this month. If we’re changing it, I’m leaving.”

Her flatmate Alex, who manages to look twice as tall as her even if they’re both sitting, looks excited. “This is very extemporary of you, Mr Fell.”

Meanwhile, Lori is shuffling her papers. She is ready to step up and take the stage. “Uhm, Mr Fell? What's happening? I had prepared my questions and everything. I planned to put today’s discussion in my dissertation. You knew.”

Fell is taken aback by the alarm in her voice and tries to sound soothing. “I think you’ll have some material for your dissertation nonetheless. I have a little surprise for all of you. You'll like it, I think.” How to introduce it, though? “You see, this is a bit of a long story. In the beginning, I was in the bookshop…”

In the backroom, Crowley clears his voice.

“Oh. Well. Uhm. We were about to discuss one of Madame Ashtoreth’s novels today. How would you like to meet the author instead?”

Human emotions are many and variegated and he thinks he sees almost all of them play out on the faces of the people before him. Anathema, understanding, sits straighter as if she’s keeping ready to answer to an emergency. Some of them are sceptical, others just plainly confused.

Once again, Lori's hands are restless as she smooths her papers. “Is this a joke?”

It’s time. Fell turns to the back room door. “Come in, dear.”

Everything is quiet for a few seconds. Anathema covers her mouth, probably without noticing. Everyone else sits very still.

Standing before them, Crowley — not Madame Ashtoreth, not Dr. Crowley, just Crowley  _ —  _ clears his voice. Fell can almost feel him vibrating with stress. “Uhm, hello.”

After a few more seconds, the silence is broken by Tara. For the first time since Fell knows her, the girl has lost her composure: mouth open, she leans forward, gripping Alex’s arm with so much force that he grimaces (but he’s wise enough not to say anything). “Holy shit. You’re her.”

Someone in the back rows whoops, and then everyone is talking at once. Fell turns slightly, smiling, and Crowley returns the smile to the best of his current abilities. Then he sees the first smartphones being raised and he steps forward to establish the ground rules (something he should have started with, really).

It’s in the middle of all this that he notices that Lori seems about to cry. He frowns and makes to step towards her, when she suddenly gathers her things to her chest and gets up, shaking her head. “No.” Her voice is so soft that no-one except him hears her. “No. I can't. I'm sorry.” She doesn’t even stop to wear her coat before she’s out the door.

The sound of the bell above the door makes the room go quiet again, at least until Tara swears through gritted teeth and grabs her coat. “I’m going after her. You.” She points at Crowley. “Don’t say anything until I get back. God, if I end up miss this because of her, I’m going to skin her alive.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, in the stunned silence, Alex turns to Fell and Crowley. “We’re not really waiting for her, are we?”

Fell’s idea to use the book club as a focus group confirms two things. The first is that, as soon as he overcomes his nerves, Crowley is an incredibly good talker. People naturally take to him and he knows how to grab their attention effortlessly. Even as he explains how and why he wrote his latest book, the most revealing and personal thing he’s ever written by any standard, he is open, steady and calm, and his audience eats straight out of his hand.

The second is that kids these days are too nosy for their own good. The third time someone asks them  _ So are you together-together? _ he has to repress the urge to run away.

He is about to deflect the question when he catches Crowley’s questioning look. Despite the sunglasses, Fell knows exactly what he’s asking. He sighs and shrugs. He didn’t want to make today about him at all, but if they really must…

Crowley lifts a corner of his mouth. “Yes, we are. Next question?”

Alex raises his hand, as if he’s attending a lecture. “What will the title be? Not the novel’s, I mean. The autobiography’s.”

( _ “An autobiography?” _

_ “Sort of.” Crowley is lying on his couch with his eyes closed and a hand on his forehead, like he’s nursing a headache. _

_ Fell gingerly puts his cup of tea down on the coffee table and turns towards him. He doesn’t say the first thing that comes into his mind  _ (this is madness) _ . He doesn’t say the second  _ (you know there’s no turning back from this) _ , either. “This will completely change your life.” _

_ Crowley tilts his head and cracks one eye open. “Yeah, sometimes change is good.”) _

The bookshop is quiet once again. 

“You see, the thing about the titles is that the author rarely has the last word on it. But this time I insisted.”

_ (The bookshop door opens and closes. Fell looks up from his desk and sees Crowley, in black jeans and a black shirt, sunglasses on, looking so much and not at all like the first time they’ve met. It’s something in his posture, maybe. Something about the spring in his step. Or maybe it’s just the hair, now so long it can be plaited in a braid. _

_ Instead of the biggest box a person can carry without toppling over, he has a large white envelope in his arms. Crowley lifts it up to show it to him and Fell almost jumps off his chair. Inside the envelope there’s a thick wad of unbound A4 sheets of paper. _

_ “Here it is.” Crowley gives the envelope to Fell. “First draft. I’m calling it  _ An Absence of Stars _ .”) _

What’s left to say?

Fell is the first person to read Crowley’s manuscript. The second one is Pepper, Crowley’s editor, the cryptic woman from the meeting, who fights for the book to be published by the main imprint of the publishing group she works for, pitching it as the non-fiction book of the decade. If Crowley’s daunted by this, he doesn’t let it show.

“It’s out of my hands”, he tells Fell. “Whatever happens, I’m good.”

What happens is that  _ An Absence of Stars _ enters the bestseller list (doesn’t reach the first spot, though. That cookbook has no intention to budge), it gets talked about and reviewed, several think pieces about gender and societal expectations are written and shared on the Internet, and a few weeks later the ebb flows and other events and scandals take its place. 

While it lasts, Bee mostly handles things, including a press conference where they act as diplomatically as they could be expected to. Everyone gets out of the room alive and no legal complaints are made, so all in all a success. Crowley declines every interview, saying that everything he needed to say is in the book and that the author is, if not dead, certainly very tired. 

Fell carefully cuts the articles from the papers and prints out those online, just to be safe.

He wouldn’t call it a happy ending, in the way it doesn’t feel like an ending at all. The feeling of being in the eye of the hurricane is stronger than ever, but it still doesn’t bother him. He can wait for the storm to pass, and he’s in good company.

Their lives slot together with less effort than Fell had expected when he started thinking about the logistics of it, that morning on a beach in the South Downs. It helps that Crowley is not throwing himself back to work right away. Apparently the man has a bucket list and is determined to do everything he was too busy to do before. He spends an entire day at Kew Gardens, from opening to closing times. He goes to matinées almost every day and drags Fell with him to walk through parks and museums and art galleries.

First of all, though, they have dinner.

Fell has to admit the Ritz has a nice ambience, an even nicer selection of wines and an excellent menu. By the time they reach dessert, though, a few things happen.

Mainly, they talk.

Fell waits for the waiter to pour the wine in both of their glasses and to go away before he asks: “So. What’s next, my dear?”

Delicate fingers take the glass by the stem and make the wine inside swirl, contemplating the way the light plays on the Vermentino. The movement makes the sleeve of Crowley’s black shirt shift enough to reveal a white wrist, lilac veins underneath the skin. Fell knows exactly how that pulse accelerates under his fingers, his lips. “I want to take a vacation.”

As he lifts his glass, Fell keeps his tone purposefully even. “Where did you have in mind to go?”

“Anywhere, I don’t care.”

The wine is light. The first sip doesn’t go straight to his head, unlike other things. It should pair well with the seafood of their main course. “What about your job? Will you write? Do research?” 

He expects a flippant answer, like the one he once got. Eyebrows raised.  _ I’m always writing.  _

What he gets instead is this.

“I’ve… been thinking about it.” Despite being at the bloody Ritz, Crowley’s sprawled like the student who always gets sent to the principal's office, an arm slung over the backseat, facing towards Fell, who's at his right side. His hair is up in a bun, and he’s looking at him though clear lenses. He’s started wearing his other glasses more and more often even outside of his flat. He is relaxed, and so is his tone. “I won’t be writing for a bit. I’m not quitting altogether, I don’t think. I just want to live a little, you know. Go places and don’t think about how they’ll fit in a novel. Don’t worry whether Adam is looking for the right things at the observatory. Forget about deadlines for a while. I just want to be there. With you.”

Looking away from him, Fell smiles in his glass. “Oh, I’m invited too?”

“And he thinks he’s funny.” Crowley rolls his eyes, but his heart’s not in it. “Just… think about it.”

Fell allows himself to picture them elsewhere, somewhere sunny, somewhere they've never been. “I will.”

There will be other dinners, and lunches, and breakfasts, both alone and with other people. Anathema will invite Crowley over to a Saturday brunch (a one-time-only type of arrangement, she specifies. She and Crowley joke about sharing custody of Fell and he begs them to stop. He loves them so much his heart feels about to shatter).

But this is the dinner where they Talk. About the Thing.

It’s very anticlimactic, all things considered. The thing is, they both already know. They have already started living as if the Thing wouldn’t go anywhere anytime soon, and when they put a name to it there are no anxieties, no doubts, no  _ but will he return my feelings? _ Come on. They know.

It’s still nice to make things official, though. Especially for Fell, who likes it when things are properly signed and sealed. But he suspects Crowley — his  _ partner _ — is at least as pleased as he is by the arrangement.

There are, of course, books. Talked about, borrowed, even planned (though Crowley really takes a break for a time, he can't exactly stop his brain from thinking, and so Fell starts listening to and weighing in on his ideas, on long walks, over dinner, during lazy mornings in bed, and if the bookshop opens late that day nobody will really mind).

That autumn,  _ An Absence of Stars _ gets reprinted and Crowley presents Fell with a copy, “for your collection”. Fell waits to be alone before opening the cover and flipping to the first page. He knows there will be something there.

_ (“Why do you always open them?” _

_ It’s a Thursday. They are in the bookshop. Fell is arranging his new arrivals and Crowley lounges in his armchair, a leg draped on the armrest, looking all casual and distracting. At least he’s wearing trousers today. He has picked upon Fell’s habit of opening books and looking at the title page before putting them on the shelf. _

_ “It’s just a tic. From handling used books, you see. I always expect to find something written inside.” _

_ “These books are new.” _

_ Fell laughs self consciously. “I know. Like I said, it’s a tic.” _

_ “Looks time-consuming.” _

_ “Are you in a hurry?” _

_ Crowley smiles and rests his head on his hand, making himself more comfortable. “Not at all, angel.”) _

From then on, every book Crowley gives Fell has something written in it. The scribble on the first edition of  _ An Absence _ reads:  _ Here it is. The most reckless thing I’ve ever done. _

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

There are changes. Some of them are plain and huge, such as Mz White’s arrest following a huge  _ Guardian  _ investigative piece about an ugly story of pollution and cover-ups. Other people’s misery has never made Fell happy, even when they deserve it, and he’s too involved in this complicated story to follow its developments with equanimity. The important thing is that, even if she wanted to hurt them, Carmine Zingiber doesn’t have anything to threaten him or Crowley anymore, and if the whole affair tastes a little like justice, well. Fell will take it and leave the rest of the world (or, well, the rest of England) to discuss it.

Other changes include Crowley wildly mixing and updating his wardrobe. It’s adorable, really, the enthusiasm he puts in it. Fell, who doesn't wear the same clothes he had when he opened the bookshop only because he’s gone a bit soft around the middle in the twenty years in-between, looks with amusement and affection at his partner’s experiments. He still wears only dark colours — not  _ everything  _ has to change —, but spots of red and purple appear among the black and the dark greys. Sometimes it’s jeans and leather, sometimes skirts and dresses, often a bit of both. Fell always likes what Crowley comes up with, but then again he thinks Crowley always looks lovely, so his judgement may be a bit partial. (Sometimes Crowley makes him look at his chat with Anathema on his phone. Fell is sure they don’t talk exclusively about clothes. They’re just the parts Crowley lets him see. He’s sure.)

That summer, Warlock comes over during Pride Month. With his black clothes and the eyeliner, he looks like a pocket version of Crowley. They put rainbow pins and flags on and go to the parade together. For his part, Fell hangs rainbows everywhere he can in the bookshop — which must be a bit startled by all these colours all of a sudden, and suffers it with grace —, but crowds are still very much not his thing. When Warlock comes around, he gets promptly adopted by the book club kids, whose company Fell has come to expect almost every day.

And then there’s the post-it.

Fell finds it stuck on the title page of  _ An Absence _ ’s reprint. There’s a string of numbers on it. At first he thinks it’s a telephone number, but it’s too long. They’re not times nor dates, too incoherent. He takes the post-it out of the book and sticks it carefully above his desk, always in sight.

He thinks about it on and off. Coordinates? No, it should be alphanumeric. What, then? The first time Crowley comes by and sees the post-it, he chuckles, then shrugs. His lips stay sealed.

It finally occurs to Fell thanks to Lori's dissertation. 

The girl has turned around quickly: she came to the bookshop the next day, almost in tears, apologising Fell for the way she reacted.

Her cheeks were bright red and she looked everywhere but in Fell's eyes as she explained. “I couldn't stop thinking: this is the end. The focus of my work, of my future career is Madame Ashtoreth, and now everything will have to change. Every theory, every hypothesis, every interpretation, everything will have to be rediscussed.” She exhaled and finally looked at him, and something she saw in his eyes softened her own expression. Suddenly she wasn’t so tense anymore. “But I’d never forgive myself if I put these things in front of real people. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did. I can never undo it, but I can apologise. Please tell him.” She tilted her head. “Or is it ‘them’?”

“‘Him’ is fine, thanks for asking. And I’m very happy you’ve come. I’ll tell Crowley, but he’s not angry with you. He’s never been. I’m sure he’d love to offer some insights, if you want.”

His tone was casual, but Lori reacted as if he’d offered her a million pounds. Her eyes were wide and she looked like she had stopped breathing, but… in a good way, sort of? “Are you sure? Are you  _ serious _ ?”

“Yes, of course. We talked about it and he said that scholars usually appreciate hearing from the source itself. My dear, are you all right?”

Instead of answering, Lori covered her face with her hands. “When? Shall I go to his place? Or maybe we should meet in a café, neutral ground. Or we could come here! Would it be all right, Mr Fell? I will have to go through my edits faster…”

Long story short, it’s night and Crowley is reading Lori’s dissertation in bed. They’re at Fell’s, because Crowley doesn’t mind being at close quarters in Fell’s small apartment. (Fell asked. A few times. Crowley told him to stop fussing, and Fell did with a smile he didn’t mind to hide.) Fell closes his book, keeping a finger between the pages, and turns to Crowley, who’s started reading aloud a particularly clever comparison between two novels (something to do with structure and plot devices), holding a pencil and gesturing as he speaks. Fell admits he gets a bit lost, because when he looks at Crowley he has to take a metaphorical step back and reassure himself that yes, Crowley is really in his bed, and he reads with his glasses a bit too low on his nose, completely absorbed, and Fell would like to pick this moment and press it in a book. 

Then, as Crowley goes on, reading the page numbers Lori quotes in her dissertation, something clicks. Eureka.

He has enough self-control to wait until Crowley’s asleep to get out of bed and tiptoe downstairs, where he feels his way in the dark until he can turn on the desk lamp. He grabs his new copy of  _ An Absence of Stars _ and verifies if his theory is correct.

It is. The numbers on the post-it are page numbers, and then line and column. He takes pen and paper and stars jotting down the words they mark.

It doesn’t take long. It’s a question, four words long, and his self control is tested once more as he doesn’t wake Crowley up to tell him the answer. Instead he goes upstairs and slips under the covers again, sliding towards the man who wants to be his husband, waiting for him to wake up in the morning to tell him that his answer is, of course, yes.

Most importantly, they are happy. Fell never gets completely used to it, not even when he has spent years with his husband by his side. And he thinks it’s the same for Crowley as well, judging from the way he looks at him, sometimes. Judging from the little everyday things and the big ones alike.

He has everything he could ever desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this where I make my speech?  
Thank you to [seekwill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/pseuds/seekwill) and [TheGan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGan) for the beta. Having you two by my side made me feel like I knew what I was doing.  
To everyone who has read, left kudos, commented and/or reached out on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/): I don't even have words. I wish I could buy you all a drink. Thank you for taking the time to tell me that my story mattered to you.  
None of this would exist if in June 2019 a couple of friends hadn't made me sit on their couch and watch this show called _Good Omens_. Those six hours changed my life and I still can't get enough of these two ethereal/occult dorks. This is far from the last thing I'll write about them, so I hope to see you all there.


End file.
